


Even the darkness has arms

by LorianO



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: (and some fun moments), (but mostly drama), (though there are some jokes), Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Slow Burn, This is not a fun story, a bit of fake agent stuff, a lot of drama, and a bit of fluff just for the fun, blood and guns, oh there's also a bit of torture, that was supposed to be short but oh well here we are, this is my way to cope after seeing the play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-03-30 01:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 78,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorianO/pseuds/LorianO
Summary: When Curt Mega and Owen Carvour meet for the first time, none of them go by that name, and they sure don't plan on ever meeting again. But a spy isn't really the master of his own fate, isn't he?





	1. Berlin - October 1951

Curt’s shoulders relax only slightly when he enters the bar. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol smell and humidity rising from clothes. His eyes quickly scour the room for hostile behavior, but everyone is too caught up in their own life to notice him. He goes to the bar, catching glimpses of conversations around him – but nothing that keeps his attention. Running his hand through his wet hair, he orders a whisky. The bartender gives him a disdainful look – does he do that to all strangers, or only those who order whisky? His drink in hand, he climbs the staircase at the back of the room.  
Upstairs, the atmosphere is only a bit quieter. He takes a sip, then crosses the dark wooden room to a door at the far end. When he steps on the terrace, the rain is still pouring.  
There is only one other man here. Tall and slender, he’s leaning against the wall, where the roof still protects him from the rain. The red end of a cigarette comes and goes up to his mouth. Curt takes one out of his jacket’s inner pocket and goes to him.

  
“Do you have a lighter? I left mine in the car”, he asks in German.

  
The other turns his head, taking him in in one long look.

  
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” he answers in German, taking a sliver lighter out of his pocket.

  
With a slight smile on his lips, he lights it and Curt cocks his head, inspiring the smoke. He then leans against the wall next to the man, who puts the lighter back inside his jacket. They smoke in silence for a few moments, head inside their shoulders to keep the cold away.

  
“Took you long enough,” the man finally say with a very British accent. “I thought you were gonna let me wait here to death.”  
“They didn’t give me a car,” answers Curt in English. “And it’s hell to find a cab in this weather, so I walked.”  
“Well, you might be the one who freezes to death, then.”

  
Curt huffs without looking at him and takes a sip of alcohol, his cigarette still in hand.  
The English man throws his away and crushes it under his shoe, eyeing him up and down again.

  
“You’re younger than I expected.”  
“You too,” says Curt after a quick look at him.  
The other man laughs. “Fair enough, man. I take it it’s you first time in Germany?”

  
Curt looks at him before answering. Long hair slicked backward, a light mustache and a smile as cocky as his accent.

  
“Yes.”  
“I’ll have a couple of things to teach you, then. Like how to find a cab. Or how to improve that accent.”  
“My accent is perfectly fine,” blurts Curt.  
“That’s alright, love. We’ve all been there at some point.” He detaches himself from the wall and, facing Curt, adds: “Listen, man, I didn’t come to this goddamn city to stand in the rain, so meet me there –” he hands him a card “– in half an hour, and we’ll go through all the details.”  
“What’s your name?” asks Curt, his eyes on the card, when the man is almost at the door.  
Hand on the handle, the British stops, smiles and says:  
“Clive. And you are?”  
“Bart.”  
“Well, nice to meet you, Bart.”

  
And with a last smile, he’s gone.  
The rain still pours, and Curt finishes his drink and his cigarette.

***

Curt has always been anxious when he finds himself in Cynthia Houston’s office but, when she summoned him two days ago, her language had been ever more colorful than usual.

  
“Apparently those fucking lobsters don’t believe we can retrieve these Russian documents on our own, or maybe they don’t believe we have enough fucking integrity to share it with them if need be, so those tight assholes at MI6 are also sending one of their agents to Berlin. So –” menacing him with the smelly cigarette between her fingers, she towered over him – he still couldn’t understand how she was able to do that, being a few feet smaller than him “– you’re gonna go over there, you’re gonna meet that mean son of a bitch and you’re gonna show him you’re a meaner son of a bitch than him. Understood?”  
“Who’s the guy?” he dared to ask.  
“Probably no one important, as I’ve never heard of this fucker. Susan!”

  
She snapped her finger and, as always, Susan had appeared out of thin air, a file in his hand.

  
“Everything’s in it,” she said as she once again snapped her fingers, prompting Susan to give it to him. “Your cover, your reservations, and the protocol to meet this British fucker. Now go, the techies are waiting for you and your plane leaves in two hours, and sadly I’ve got other fucking kids like you to supervise.”

  
File in hand, he was already at the door when she called after him, her phone in hand.

  
“And Mega! Two things before you get the fuck out of here. One, don’t let those posh bastards run the dance, and two, don’t fucking die. You’re property of the American government, and I’d rather spare myself the fucking paperwork.”

  
Then Susan shut the door behind him, and everything had gone in a flash. A few planes later, he’d landed in Russian Berlin, under the name of Bart Ultra, coming to the city to finish his engineering degree. His German accent was thick and provincial, and his suitcase full of gadget disguised as dull clothes – except for this one tux he always took with him. The techie trainee – a small blond named Tamara or something like that – had ordered him to never take off his wrist watch, as it was both his link with the CIA and his tracker.  
As if he’s ever been that reckless. Despite what Cynthia seems to say, and what everybody else seem to think about him, he is a good agent. He follows the rules, sticks to the plans, listens to what he’s told to do and only improvises when everything else has failed.  
So of course he won’t take off his wrist watch, and if someone tries to do that, he’ll fucking stop them.

***

When he climbs off the cab at the address that Clive guy gave him, he finds himself facing a shabby hotel, which was probably top notch before the war, but has since seen bombing, looting, and the architectural sadness of Russian occupation, and now can’t be considered anything close to fancy.  
He enters the lobby, and a concierge as faded as the once red wallpaper behind him barely looks at him over his newspaper. Curt gives him a quick glance and starts climbing the staircase on his right. Room 303, said the paper than now lays in ashes on the terrace of that bar.  
When he reaches the door, Curt stands a few seconds in front of it before knocking. Although he’s meeting with someone who claims to be an ally, he finds comfort in the weight of the gun behind his back. Ever since he got it when he entered the CIA two years ago, he’s almost always had it on him. It makes him feel safer, stronger, better but, also, it gives him a sense of purpose. Now he’s not just Curt Mega, the man, he’s Curt Mega, the agent, the spy, the property of the American government don’t-take-off-your-watch. And maybe this Curt Mega is worth something.  
The British man opens straight after the first knock – it’s as if he was watching him from behind the door; maybe he was. He glances briefly into the empty hallway before pulling Curt inside the room.

  
“So I guess you found a cab,” smiles Clive as he walks toward a wooden chair.

Curt passes his hand through his now dry hair.

“I did.”  
“Come on, take a sit, love,” says the English man, already at the table, leaning over a messy pile of paper while indicating another wooden chair – though not the same model as his.

The look of the room confirms what Curt thought at his first glance at the hotel. The furniture is mismatched, the blankets frayed, the wallpaper torn and faded, and some spider web in a corner shows that cleaning has not been very thorough recently.  
That Clive guy also doesn’t seem to be a very tidy person. His open suitcase shows a mess of creased clothing, half falling to the floor, more clothes and items cover the unmade bed, and the unstacked documents on the wobbly table are all proof of his lack of order. This man wouldn’t know if he was robbed. Isn’t organization one of the main qualities of a spy?  
No. It’s blending in. And maybe that’s what he’s doing. Maybe he’s just pretending to be messy to throw Curt off.  
And Curt can’t show him that it’s working. So he sits beside him.

“So I’ve been here for a couple of days,” starts the guy without looking at him, taking a document in his hand, letting it go for another, and then combing the table for a third one. “I’ve already gathered some intel on the administration building where our man is working, and the hotel where he’s staying. I’ve tried to work out his timetable, but he doesn’t seem to have a definite pattern so far. I have some idea for where we could get him, but first we need to be sure about where he keeps the contracts –”  
“He doesn’t,” Curts interrupts.  
Clive raises his head toward him. “What?”

Curt opens his jacket and takes out a file he throws on the table.

“He doesn’t keep the contracts. It’s his wife who handles everything.”  
“How do you know that?” asks Clive, who is already perusing the file.  
“One of our agent was stationed in Kiev when he was working there, and got the opportunity to get close to him. Turns out our guy knows he’s being watched, and he’s careful as hell. So, since he doesn’t trust himself as being able to carry anything of importance, she’s the one handling it.”  
“That should make our job easier,” smirks Owen without looking up. “I bet she’s not as protected as he is.”  
“She’s not,” confirms Curt. “But she’s a lot smarter than what people usually give her credit for. And a lot stronger. So I wouldn’t take anything for granted.”  
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like a challenge.” Clive’s smile grows wider.

Curts leans over the table beside him and starts taking a look at the pile of papers. Most of it is about the Russian dignitary they were assigned to target.

“Seems we won’t be needing most of those,” he comments as he reads his timetable of the last two days, written in an tiny urgent script – Clive’s handwriting, he guesses.  
“Hey, don’t dismiss all of my hard work, man! It might come of use later.”Clive goes backward a few pages in the file Curt gave him, and comments: “I hate to admit that, but your man did a pretty good job. Now, how about we start using all of this to get our hands on these arm deal, love?”

***

Curtains closed, lights dim, they spend the next hours of the night exchanging their intel and imagining scenarios to get to the wife – Olga, mother of four, lady by career who took fencing to an art form, famous for never forgetting to express her disagreement loud and clear about everything. And, Curt tries not to show it, but, as the hours pass, he gets more and more annoyed at the British man’s ideas, which all seem too extravagant, and lack the subtlety they should have as spies. His own ideas, though not perfect, he’s ready to admit it, at least have the decency of being discreet and not having them expose their presence for the all Russian administration to see.  
Clive dismisses them all as being “too reserved and lacking accuracy.”  
They finally agree on a few path they could follow, and decide of a meeting the next morning at a café facing the hotel where Olga can be found.  
Curt feels very relieved as Clive leads him to the door. It’s the middle of the night, but he’s to upset by him and his careless attitude to feel tired. Just because that guy has a couple more years in the field, he seems to think he knows everything and can afford to be reckless.  
He didn’t formulate it that way, but he probably thinks he’s the best fucking spy on this planet.  
Curt feels pretty sure he isn’t.  
When, after carefully checking that the place is empty, Curt steps into the hallway and turns to say goodbye, he feels Clive’s breath on his cheek just before he kisses him.

“See you tomorrow, love,” whispers the British accent in his ear.  
Curt freezes. “What are you doing?” he asks, accusatory.  
Leaning in the doorway, Clive smiles. “Well, if someone catches you leaving or coming here, you better have a story to tell, right?”  
Curt raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it illegal?”  
Clive raises both of his, still smirking. “Would you rather admit the truth?”  
“Who do you think I am?” asks Curt, defiantly. “I’m good at what I do.”  
Clive watches him for a few seconds, still smiling, and finally says. “Yeah, you keep thinking that. Goodnight, love.”

And the door closes.

***

In the street, Curt feels too much energy in himself to go back to his own shabby hotel by cab. Fuck the rain, he’ll walk. Hell, he would run if he wasn’t so concerned about looking suspect to any Russian cop that might be hanging around these parts.  
How dare that Clive guy act like that? Sure, they’re both spies, and they’re both in the same shit if one of them get caught, but did he really have to do that? The fucking hallway was empty. Literally no one saw that. After all his fucking half-hidden criticism – hell, not even half –, his hellish room and his nonsensical plans, this was the last drop. Curt is more and more convinced all of this was just a game to test him and try to throw him off.  
And he’s passed the test. Hell, he’s aced it. Despite his burning anger, he’s managed to keep his cool all night, to show courtesy and decency, which is hell of a whole lot more than what the other did.  
But why should he have to pass a test in the first place? Sure, they don’t work for the same agency, but English and American are allies. And he’s a member of the CIA, for God sake! Does that guy really think he’d be there if he was not trustworthy? Even Cynthia seems to trust him somehow, and she’s a lot tougher than him, so why should that guy be wary of him?  
Because he’s a spy. Spies don’t trust anything or anyone, not even their own – especially not their own.  
Himself should have been more wary. He shouldn’t even have gone in this guy’s room. Who knows what would have happened? That kiss: it was nothing, compared to what he should have been careful of.  
Now, he’s not angry anymore at that MI6 guy: he’s angry at himself. He prides himself on being a good spy, but he hears a British accent and starts making beginner’s mistakes.  
It reminds him of what his last girlfriend told him when she broke up with him: “you’re not who I expected you to be.” She was not the first one to say that, and that look of disappointment while she did wasn’t new either.  
Curt tries, though. He tries to keep up with his bravado, with his fearless spy appearance, with that calm he’s supposed to show in any circumstances. And sometimes, he even succeeds; sometimes he feels strong and invincible, as he’s supposed to be.  
But most of the time, he just feels like he’s way behind on who he’s supposed to be.  
Like right now. That guy, who’s been acting like a real goof bag all night, might actually be a few steps ahead of him.  
So, instead of letting his emotions take the best of him, he should focus, rely on facts, and be a fucking spy, goddammit.  
So, as a good start on this, he uses his watch to announce he’s made contact with his mission partner. And now, go back to his hotel and get some sleep.

***

Curt doesn’t get any sleep. He’s so focused on not messing up this mission and getting his composure back and getting a good plan set up that he doesn’t feel like it until the sun rises – and then, it’s time for him to go to the meeting point.  
When he gets there, sunglasses on his nose to hide both his face to the public and the dark circles under his eyes to Clive, he chooses a table on the street despite the chilly October wind. He orders a coffee – with a German accent he thinks is perfectly acceptable, whatever that British guy says – and starts sipping it before the other arrives.

“Sorry mate, I missed the bus,” he says in German when he finally slips in the chair besides him.

Curt only throws a glance at him before going back to the hotel they’re facing, but that’s enough for this smirk to make his annoyance rise again.

“You didn’t miss anything,” he finds the strength to answer.

Clive orders another coffee for himself and keeps babbling in German.

“So, you had a good night’s sleep? You don’t look like it – sorry for saying that, but it’s true. Are you ready for today? I hope you are, cause we’ve got a lot of things to do. Starting with…”  
“Look.”  
“What? Oh, yeah, sorry, thanks,” says Clive as the waiter puts his coffee in front of him.

But Curt sees him glancing at the woman who just exited the hotel – Olga herself, followed by another lady who seems to be built on the same model: tall, strong, loud, with a heavy dress. He finishes his cup and gets up, leaving a few coins on the table.

“You better hurry, we’re gonna miss our next bus.”  
“Oh, never mind me, I’ve decided I’ll skip today”, says Clive while taking a first sip with a discreet sign of the head to the hotel. “Meet you here for lunch.”

Curt nods and, with a final look, leaves and crosses the street. Olga is a few feet in front of him, deep in conversation with her friend. He will follow her around to wherever she goes and, while she’s busy doing whatever she does, Clive will find his way into her room and look for the contract there. Curt is pretty sure it’s not, but there’s no harm in looking – especially if it keeps Clive away from him for a couple of hours.  
When Clive proposed to be the one infiltrating the hotel, Curt didn’t disagree, though he should have: he’s always felt more comfortable getting lost in a crowd than breaking into places. Of course, he does it when he has to, it’s part of the job, but when someone else seems enthusiastic at this idea, he gladly lets them enjoy it.  
In retrospect, maybe leaving Clive out of his sight wasn’t such a good idea – what about all of his late night speech about trust? But it’s too late now, and it’s tactically a better use of their limited time – the contract is to be signed two days from now, after all – to split up and each do half of the work.  
Though Olga and her friend do nothing notable all day – shop, shop, a quick pause for a tea, another shop, and a restaurant for lunch with another friend – Curt is pretty sure, considering the way she’s sometimes holding her back, that the contracts are there.  
That’s gonna be hell of a lot harder than he thought, if he’s right.

***

When himself meets back with Clive, he discovers that he probably is: the room was a dead end.

“I even looked inside the vents,” Clive sighs.  
“I think I know where it is.”  
Clive arcs an eyebrow. “Where?”  
“Finish your meat first.”

The eyebrow rises higher.  
Curt’s plate has been empty for a while, and, seeing the other hurry to eat, he feels kind of good to have the upper hand in this. Because, of course, he’s not going to talk about this in that restaurant, neither in a German that everyone can understand nor in an English that could get them noticed in the blink of an eye.  
Half an hour later, they find themselves walking at a slow pace in an almost empty street.

“So you mean one of us will have to get into her pants?” asks Clive as he opens the portal to a public park – almost empty in this season, especially with this moody weather.  
“Well, into her corsage at least,” answers Curt as he follows him.  
“I would gladly let you do it,” smirks Clive as he casts him a glance over his shoulder, “but I doubt you can sweet talk your way into this.”  
“I can sweet talk my way into anything,” grumbles Curt.  
“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

Curt sits on a bench and smiles at him through his sunglasses.

“Not today. You seem so adamant to go yourself, I don’t want to stop you.”  
“What, you’re scared of the lady?” teases Clive as he sits beside him.  
“Never. But she knows me.”  
“How? Did she see you this morning?”

Curt denies with a shake of the head.

“You remember that report from Kiev?”  
Clive frowns. “It was you?”  
Curt nods. “I mainly dealt with him, but she saw me a couple of time. And that lady is like an elephant: she has both the size and the memory.”  
“And you think she wouldn’t be happy to see you.”

That’s not a question.

“I don’t think any of them would.”  
“What did you do?”  
Crossing his legs, Curt smirks. “What happens in Kiev stays in Kiev.”  
Clive huffs. “Fine. You keep your secrets,” he says, waving the story away with a move of the hand, “I’ll get the contracts.” He then smiles and turns to him, whispering “But I’ll make bloody sure your CIA knows it’s me who got them, love.”  
“You do that, and I’ll make sure your MI6 knows it was me who handed you all the intel and you just had to let the contracts fall right onto your lap,” snaps Curt.  
“Relax, love,” says Clive as he pats his knee. “You’ll be able to watch me in action and enjoy the show, I promise.”  
Curt rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Can’t wait.”

***

That afternoon, they explore and survey the hotel and its surroundings, and meet again at night in Clive’s hotel room – which is as messy as the day before. Is he still trying to throw Curt off or is he really like that? They keep planning until a late hour and, once again, Clive sees Curt to the door.  
When he stays inside the room, Curt turns and asks:

“You’re not gonna kiss me goodnight today?”  
“You’re getting very demanding, isn’t it?”  
“Well, if you’re going for a cover, better going all the way, right, love?”

Clive inclines his head and squints his eyes and, after a few seconds, puts his hand on Curt’s cheek.

“Well, if you insist, love.”

Curt hasn’t got time to see it coming, but the next moment Clive’s lips are on his. It lasts but an instant, and the time for Clive to withdraw is barely enough for him the hide his surprise.

“Sleep well, then,” whispers Clive with a wink.  
“Yeah, you too,” mumbles Curt to a closed door.

Here goes another night of sleep.

***

Curt is mostly relieved, the next morning, that he doesn’t have to face Olga. He knows that, when he goes back, Cynthia will give him hell for letting the British guy do the job, but right now, he doesn’t have the strength to even talk to Olga. The lack of sleep, the thrill of the mission, Clive’s know-it-all arrogant attitude… all of it makes facing people in general seem a little too overwhelming.

“She’s coming,” says the voice of Clive in his ear.

Hidden in a supply closet of the hotel dressed as a janitor, Curt is monitoring Clive through the ear-pieces given by the CIA. Ideally, he’d have preferred to be in the lobby in the hotel with them, to able to see them, but he couldn’t risk her recognizing him.  
He then ears a mess of a sound, followed by Clive apologizing in German : “Oh, I’m so sorry m’am, I’m so clumsy! Let me help you get up. Could I do anything to apologize?”  
Her answer is too far and to much coated in a Russian accent for Curt to understand the words but, from the tone, he can tell she’s not to shocked to be forgiving.

“Here, let me help you sit while I go find something to drink,” says Clive’s voice in what seems to be a rumble of clothes.

And does Curt hear Olga giggle?

“I’ve made the first approach,” whispers Clive. “Everything’s working swimmingly.”  
“You know you don’t have to literally get into her pants, right?”  
“Don’t be jealous, love, it doesn’t suit you,” Clive snorts.  
“I’d work for the KGB before ever being jealous of Olga. But don’t keep her waiting, you don’t want her to slip between your fingers.”  
“The only thing I want between my fingers is those contracts.”

Curt doesn’t’ answer and keeps listening, hearing Clive order a glass of wine, then going back to Olga.

“Here, drink this, m’am. Again, I’m so so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention and see where that got me! I couldn’t have forgiven myself if anything bad had happened to you.”  
“Yeah, keep flirting,” mumbles Curt before adding, at a level Clive will understand: “Try patting her back or something to see if you can feel the documents. She has them somewhere on her, I’m sure of that.”

He hears some more flirty tone from Olga – come on, that British guy is not that handsome –, and then some coughing, before Clive’s voice gets panicky.

“Oh no, is there something wrong with the wine? I keep making mistakes, right?”

There’s some more coughing, and some more flirting, until Clive says: “Are you sure you’re okay to go now? Perfect. Sorry again, m’am, I’m must admit I’m not used to all these people around.”

“Don’t let her go!” says Curt authoritatively. “If you dare let her out of your sight without getting the contracts, I swear I’ll deliver you myself to the KGB.”  
“Are you feeling alright, m’am? You look a little dizzy. You’re sure you can go out like that? Maybe that fall was a bit harder than you thought ? Here, let me accompany you to your room.”  
“Again, there’s no need to literally get into her pants.”  
“You don’t look so well, m’am. Maybe you should call the doctor. Do you have a doctor here? Do you want me to make the call? You can put the bill on my tab, this is completely my fault.”

Curts hears some swooshing, and probably the elevator’s doors opening.

“Which floor do you stay at, m’am?”  
“Careful, Clive. You may have drugged her, but she’s cunning. I wouldn’t want to find myself in a swords fight with her. Don’t assume you’re there just because she got a bit flirty with you and fainted in your arms. Don’t let your guard down.”

There’s a ding as the elevator stops, and some more white noise and Clive pretending to worry as he drags her to her room.

“Do you want me to open the door for you, m’am? Okay, I’ll let you do it. Here, you’re good. You’ll be okay for now? You’re sure? Great, I’ll leave you to it, then. Please, if you call a doctor, send the bill to room 303 – that’s me. I’ll pay.”

The door clicks.

“Did you just let her out of her sight?” growls Curt.  
“Relax, man,” whispers Clive. “She didn’t lock her door. I’ll wait a couple of minutes, ‘till she’s passed out, and I’ll go get into her pants. And besides, even if she’s locked it, I could still get in the room in less time than it would take you to get mad at me.”  
“Don’t underestimate me.”  
“Oh, no, you don’t underestimate me, love.”  
“And don’t call me that.”  
“Alright, love,” huffs Clive.

Curt forces himself to take a deep breath. Now is not the moment to get mad. It’s the moment to focus on the mission and get those fucking plans.

“Anyway, that wasn’t the plan. The plan was for you get into the room with her.”  
“Well, it’s called ‘adapting’ and ‘improvising’, love.”  
“As long as it’s not called ‘aborting the mission’.”  
“Here. I’m going back to the room. See where all of your useless talking and quarrelling led us? Right back in front of her door. Thanks for keeping me busy the last couple of minutes.”  
“Well, it’s not like you had anything better to do.”

Clive doesn’t answer, and Curt hears the door clicking. There’s no sound for a couple of seconds, and then a big knocking sound.

“Clive?! What the hell!” says Curt.  
“Get off me!” protests Clive in his German accent. “I was just checking if you were alright!”

Now the woman is yelling, so Curt understands perfectly well what she’s saying, even though she’s speaking Russian.

“Get out of my room, you dirty thief! You won’t get the contracts! If you think I’ll let you take anything from me, you’re a damn idiot! I’ll show you how Russian women fight!”  
“But, m’am–” starts Clive, before another knocking sound interrupts him. He then just drops all pretenses and says, in English: “A little help would be much appreciated here, Bart!”

But Curt is already on his way, running up the corridor. He can hear the sounds of the fight not only in his earpiece, but also through the open door. He takes his gun out, slows down just before arriving, and stops a second besides the door before entering.  
When he comes in, he can see a mass of arms and legs a little further in the room. Grunts and cries emerge from it. He closes the door as subtly as he can and moves toward it.

“Bart, dammit!” yells Clive – proof that none of them saw him enter, too caught up in their fight.  
“Move to the right,” Curt whispers.

Clive, circling the woman in his arms, does as he’s told, and Curt raises his arm and knock her on the head with the handle of his gun.  
She yells, but doesn’t stop fighting – though her movements are a bit messier. Clive manages to immobilize her arms behind her back, and she finds herself facing Curt, who smiles as he puts his gun on her forehead.

“Remember me, Olga?” he asks in Russian.

Her eyes darken in answer, and she spits on him.

“I thought I told you to get out of our life forever.”  
“Well, I’ve just got one last thing to do, and then I will.”

Without moving the gun, he looks up to Clive, takes handcuffs out of his back pocket, hands them to him and switches to English:

“Here. Lock her and get the contracts.”  
“What did she just say?” asks Clive as he does what he’s told.  
“Oh, just the usual threatening, you know.”  
As Olga tries to resist Clive, Curt says to her: “Stop moving, or I won’t think twice before shooting you this time.”

She glares at him, but stills.  
Once her hands are cuffed behind her back, Clive starts opening her dress.

“That’s not as fun as I thought it would be,” he says to Curt with a smile.  
“Just get them,” answers Curt, keeping his eyes on Olga.  
Clive ruffles with the clothes, and finally lets an exclamation out. “Ah! There’s indeed some documents hidden over there. Weren’t you afraid to sweat on them?” he asks in German. “Oh, well, they’re in a pretty good state. I guess you’re not a very sweaty woman.”  
“Is it the contracts?” asks Curt as Clive shuffles through them.  
“Looks like it. You wanna check? I must admit my Russian is a bit rusty.”  
“Take my place,” says Curt as he takes the papers Clive hands him.

Clive gets his own gun out and places himself in front of Olga as Curt quickly reads through the stack of paper.

“That’s it,” he confirms. “Now, Olga, is it the only copy?” he asks in Russian.

She looks at him without answering. He lowers himself to her level.

“Come on, Olga. I could ask my buddy here to kill you if you don’t answer, but we both know that wouldn’t get any of us anywhere. So I’m gonna leave you another choice: either you answer me, or I go ask that question to our dear Piotr. Now, what’s it gonna be?”  
“You won’t talk to Piotr!” she eructs.

Curt smiles.

“Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?”  
“I won’t let you!”  
“Okay, so answer me. Is this the only copy of this contract?”  
“Yes!”  
“The Germans don’t have one?”  
“No!”  
“And Piotr doesn’t have another one hidden somewhere?”  
“No! He gave me the only copy because he can’t trust himself!”

She tries to retreat toward the window, but both Curt and Clive put a hand on one of her shoulders.

“Stay with me, Olga, insists Curt. If I go look in Piotr’s office, I won’t find anything?”  
“I have the only copy, I told you, you bastard!”  
“Good, good. Now, Olga, you’ll be nice, right? Just do what we tell you and I won’t go bother that poor old Piotr. Alright?”  
She just stares at him, but he continues: “Come over here. Okay, right. Now, sit on that chair – right, with your arms behind the backrest. Great. Now, don’t move.”  
Taking his gun again, he places it against her head and switches to English for Clive: “Go grab something to attach her to the chair. Both feet and hands.”

Clive starts looking around the room, and Curt goes back to Russian.

“Now, Olga. We’re gonna leave you tied up, just to make sure you don’t go tell anyone about us too soon – and don’t try to threaten me,” he stops her as she opens her mouth, “we know that the only other person with the key to this room is Piotr, and he won’t be back until tonight. Oh, and don’t worry, we’re gonna gag you too, so you won’t waste your energy trying to call for help.”  
“If I see you again, I will be the one with a gun on your head,” she spits.  
“I’ll remember that.”

While Clive comes back and ties her up, Curt continues.

“I just have a last question for you, Olga. How did you know about the wine?”

She snorts.

“If pretty-face over there thought he could get to me with his clumsy-boy act, then he lacks in brains what he got in looks. He’s not the first one using that scheme, and he won’t be the last.”

Curt smiles.

“Well, you can’t have everything, right? Okay, Clive, give me this gag.”

He ties the piece of clothe around her mouth, puts his gun back into his pants, the contracts in his jacket, and squats in front of her with a smile.

“Goodbye, Olga. And thanks for everything.”

He rises, takes a few steps toward the door where Clive is waiting for him, then turns and concludes:

“Oh, and don’t bother telling Piotr I said hi. It would just hurt him too much knowing I was here and didn’t stay to see him, right?”

Olga looks as if she would already be on him if she wasn’t tied up, but then the door closes and locks.

***

When they’re back in the street and in more normal clothing, Clive asks:

“So you too had a pretty long conversation back there. Care to share?”  
“I’m surprised a guy like you doesn’t speak Russian. They still let you work?”  
“In my defense, I kinda focused on Japanese these past few years.”

Curt snorts.

“So, what did you talk about?” insists Clive.  
“I asked her if there were other copies, and she said there weren’t, but just to be sure we’re gonna check Piotr’s office.”  
“You trust her?”  
“No. That’s why we’re gonna check.”  
“Okay.”  
“Well, you’re gonna check, because I can’t really be seen there.”  
“The Kiev thing again?”  
“Yeah.”  
“And that’s all she said? I mean, you talked quite a lot.”

Curt turns his head toward him and smiles.

“She also said that you were just a pretty face.”  
“That’s not so bad.”  
“Well, she saw you coming from pretty far, with all your clumsiness and your spiked wine.”  
Clive shrugs. “Considering the woman, I guess that could be expected.”  
“Not by you, apparently,” says Curt sourly.  
Clive cocks an eyebrow. “You got something you’d like to tell me, Bart?”  
“Oh, I’m not ‘love’ anymore?”  
“What, you miss it, love?”  
“Not the slightest.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, until Clive says.

“That was quite a show you put out back there.”  
“I just did my job.”  
“Again, I’m hearing the accusation in your tone. Care to explain what’s it about?”  
Curt stops, and Clive has to imitate him. “Seriously? You just proved a terrible lack of professionalism. I shouldn’t have had to rush to your help. You said you could handle it, and then you acted too nonchalantly, you let your guard down, and I was forced to intervene – and I shouldn’t have had to,” he concludes between his teeth with his index on Clive’s chest.  
“Wow, relax, love”, says Clive while raising his hands in surrender. “We’re supposed to be a team on this. That means help each other out, not pick on each other. We knew that might happen when we planned everything, and that was why we decided that you could act as backup. You were on with everything, I didn’t force your hand or anything, you agreed. That was team work. And let me say, you did a pretty good job. You’re not who I expected you’d be.”  
In his eyes, Curt sees something like respect, and a few seconds pass before he answers. “What did you expect, then?”  
“I don’t know, Bart. But considering how you’ve acted since I know you, I didn’t think you’d have this in you.”  
“Well, I’m good at what I do.”  
“And so am I,” affirms Clive, pointing back at him. “We did a good job back there. Both of us. So now I’m gonna go finish it, since you can’t because of Kiev, and then we’ll celebrate, go back home, and hopefully never see each other again. Alright?”

Curt takes a deep breath and withdraw his finger.

“Alright.”

Clive smiles his crooked smile.

“Great. See you later, then, love.”

And he departs on his long legs without turning back to him.

***

Curt has had time to pace the room a hundred times and read the contract for the arms deal twice when he hears Clive’s key in the lock. The British man seems surprised to find him – for an instant only, then he smiles.

“Didn’t think you were so eager to see me, love. Did you ask the concierge for the key?”  
“I let myself in. Did you find anything?”  
“Nah. I let myself in and out without anyone noticing. I guess that Olga woman was telling the truth.”

Curt nods, and stands up.

“Perfect. I’m gonna go, then. I’ll have my agency send a copy of the documents to yours.”

Clive holds his hands in front of him.

“Really, man? That’s it? You’re just gonna leave like that?” He cocks his head to the side and adds: “Come on, let’s have a drink. It was a success! We deserve that, don’t we?”

Curt feels the migraine, but he nods nevertheless. That’s right. They did it. They got the contracts: now, those missiles won’t be coming anywhere close to East Germany for a few more months. They deserve to celebrate.

“Fantastic!” exclaims Clive while fishing a bottle of scotch from his suitcase.

He also gets two very small glasses, puts them on the table and fills them until the very top. He pushes one toward Curt, and takes the other in his hand.

“To a successful mission,” he says as he rises his glass.  
“To never seeing you again,” retorts Curt.

Clive laughs, and empties his drink.

“Another?” he asks as he puts the glass down on the table.

Curt shakes his head and puts down his empty glass.

“Not on the job.”  
“Come on, Bart. The job is done.”  
“For me, it’s not done until I’ve handed everything to my superior.”  
“Fine,” sighs Clive. “That’s not really fun, but you’re still young and new to it, I get it.”

Curt gets up and starts toward the door. Clive follows him.

“So I guess this is goodbye.”  
“I hope so,” Curt answers while he opens the door.

Clive smiles half-heartedly and extends his hand.

“It was nice working with you, Bart.”

Curt hesitates an instant, then shakes his hand.

“We did succeed,” he concedes.  
“Have a safe trip back home.”  
“You too.”

He lets go of his hand and goes out into the hallway. The door closes behind him. He pauses for a second and turns. No pretending this time, he thinks. After checking that the contracts are still inside his jacket, he leaves the hotel.

***

Curt finds himself in Cynthia Houston’s office not even twenty-four hours later, and he can honestly say he hasn’t slept since he set foot in Germany three days ago. The migraine is still going strong.  
Susan was waiting for him at the airport, and he drove him straight to this CIA building before locking him with their boss.

“— For fuck’s sake, Mega, how could you let that fucking woman see you? I let you on this one because I thought the intel gathered on your previous assignment could be of use, but seems like you didn’t learn a fucking thing!”  
“It wasn’t—”  
“Don’t you dare interrupt me when I’m speaking, you idiot. I’ll let you know when you can talk.”

Curt lowers his head while she keeps pacing in front of him.

“And look at me when I’m talking to you! What are you, a fucking dog?”

He lifts his head back up.  
The contracts lies on the desk between them, untouched, unopened. All she’s been doing for the past fifteen minutes he’s been there is explaining to him, point by point, how he jeopardized the mission and the entire organization. Thanks to his watch, tracker, and the messages he’s been sending them during his trip, she seems to know everything about it even though he hasn’t been able to utter more than a couple of words.

“And now,” she says while putting both her fists on the table, “We’re gonna have to send another agent to make sure she doesn’t speak. Is that what you wanted, Mega? That was your fucking goal? Don’t answer me,” she says, raising a finger while he opens his mouth. “Now, do you have anything other to say for your defense than blaming the fucking useless lobster MI6 sent? Because let me tell you, Mega: if you weren’t able to control and direct him, that’s on you, not him, so don’t expect me to buy any of your accusatory bullshit. Now, be quick, I don’t have much time.”

Curt opens his mouth but stays silent a few seconds, carefully choosing what he’ll say.

“She won’t talk.”  
“Oh, now you expect me to trust a Russian lady,” she says with a fake Russian accent, “just because she told you so? I don’t know why I keep expecting things to get better from you, since the only thing you never fail to do is disappoint.”  
“She will never tell her husband because she doesn’t want him to know I was there. She hates me with all her guts, but she’s rather lie than ruin her and her couple’s reputation.”  
“Oh, and since when did you become such a fucking psychologist? I bet you couldn’t read a snail’s emotion if you had to. Now get out of here, I’ve got to clean up your mess. You’ve got the night off, but I expect you at eight sharp tomorrow morning. We have something else for you.”

And, with a wave of her hand, it’s over and she’s already picking up her phone.  
Curt sees Susan standing in the hallway, in front of the door. He nods at him, but Susan turns his eyes away.  
He probably heard everything.  
Well, now everyone knows what a fucking failure he is. What’s new?  
He strolls toward the entrance. With a bit of luck, he’ll finally get some fucking sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I thought "this story will not go over 10k words and 20 pages" before I started, considering how I wanted it to retrace all of Curt and Owen's relationship, from the first meeting to the last.  
> So, here's my take on the spies that broke my heart. Hope you'll enjoy it!  
> If you're interested, the title comes from the song of The Barr Brothers (which has the same title), it's beautiful, if you want to check it out.
> 
> Some words were supposed to be in ital, but since it didn't do it autamatically and I'm, you know, lazy, they're not #welcometomylife  
> btw, english isn't my first language, so if you see any grammar/spelling mistake, feel free to signal them to me!


	2. Singapore  – June 1952

“Fancy seeing you here, love.”

Curt tears his attention away from the speech and turns toward the voice. Of course he’s recognized the tone, and of course that smile has not been forgotten either. Clive is standing next to him, in a tuxedo, a glass of champagne in his hand – he looks like everyone else here, Curt himself included.

“Clive,” answers Curt as a greeting.  
“Oh, no, these days I’m known as Ethan. And you?”  
“Rick.”

Clive – Ethan – nods.

“I’ll get used to it. I won’t ask you why you’re here – I guess the reason’s the same as mine.”  
“If I had known you’d be here, I might not have accepted to come.”

Everyone around them clap, and they join them.

“Now, come on, love, you’re hurting my feelings.”  
“Well, you are getting on my nerves and you don’t see me complaining.”

Ethan laughs.

“So I guess both our agencies thought they would handle this by themselves, and forgot to warn the other about it.”  
“Seems so,” Curt answers while trying to keep his eyes on his target – the Australian prime minister, suspected to be here to meet with the Russian ambassador.  
“So, Rick, how about we team up and ace this mission like we did the last one?”  
“Yeah, you do that”, says Curt while giving him his half-empty glass without looking at him. “I’ve got something to take care of.”

He then crosses the crowd to follow the prime minister out of the dining room.  
A few seconds later, he hears just behind his ear:

“I’ll take care of the Russian guy and make sure they never meet.”

He gives a quick glance behind him, but Clive – Ethan – is already gone.  
He exits the room, following the Australian.

“Prime Minister! I loved your speech. Let me introduce myself: I’m Rick Supra, entrepreneur in steel – and of steel, some say.”

***

The party is long over when Ethan finds him on the roof of the building. His bowtie is off, and he’s blowing off some steam – almost literally – with a cigarette.

“So, how was yours?” asks Ethan as he passes his hand through his hair before stopping in front of him.  
“Loved to talk about himself more than betraying his country, apparently.”

Ethan snorts and takes a cigarette out off his own pocket.

“Those politicians…”

Like a reflex, Curt extends his hand that still holds his lighter as Ethan puts the cigarette between his lips. Ethan leans as the flame appears.

“I don’t know if mine bought my act of political journalist”, he says as he blows the smoke, “but I can’t say he was as talkative. The accent probably didn’t help him to feel compelled to speak. I don’t know if he was nervous because of me or because he wanted to escape to see your guy.”  
“Mine looked pretty relieved he had something else to do.”  
“You think someone else is behind that?”

Curt shakes his head.

“Nah. I think he’s being blackmailed but doesn’t really want to do it. He’s more coward than traitor.”  
“So if we take down the Russian ambassador, that stops.”  
“First of all, there’s no ‘we’. Secondly, nothing says the Russian ambassador is the one behind it. He could be just a pawn, like the prime minister.” He shakes his head and crushes the butt of his cigarette under his foot. “But I don’t know why I’m still talking to you. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”  
“Neither were you!” calls Ethan behind him as he starts leaving. “And, oh, I contacted my superior. He wasn’t so thrilled to learn that CIA had sent someone, but that since you’re here, and after the tremendous success of last time, we should work together on this.”

Curt turns back abruptly.

“Tremendous success? Are you kidding me?”  
“What? We did get the contract and the deal was never signed.”  
“Last time was a failure! Olga saw us, and yet I still let her live and someone had to be sent after me to take care of her. The only reason the arm’s deal was never signed was because her husband was too busy mourning her!” exclaims Curt.

Ethan’s eyebrows rise.

“Can’t say I feel sorry for the lady after how she acted. But that’s still not what I call a failure. After all, we did play our part in this contracts never being signed – and quite a good one, I might add.”  
“Listen,” Curt growls, “I don’t give a fuck what you or your superior said about how we should do this mission as a team. As long as I don’t receive a direct order to do so from my own superior, consider we’re done. I don’t plan on ever again putting myself in line of fire for you.”

He stares at him for a few seconds, bullets in his eyes, but then his watch starts beeping before the other one can answer.

“I’ll go take that,” Curt whispers while pointing at him with his finger, “and hopefully when I’m done you’ll be gone. Forever.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and take a few paces before clicking on his watch.

“Mega!” yells the unmistakable voice of Cynthia Houston. “I just had a call from the MI6 saying one of their agent is there and has made contact with you. Is that correct?”  
“Yes,” sighs Curt.  
“And when the fuck did you think it would be a good idea to tell me?”  
“I was about to. I prioritized the mission for the evening and…”  
“I don’t think you even know what prioritizing means, Mega, but I’m telling you, next time I learn about that kind of thing from someone other than yourself, you’ll be filing paperwork for a month. Because not only did you make me look stupid and ignorant – you might know the feeling, cause that’s how you should feel all the time –, but you gave me no other choice than to say to this fucking red coat that yes, of course, you’re gonna work with his agent. So now, you better do a good job on this one and not make more of an idiot of me. Understood?”  
“Yes, m’am.”  
“You better. Now get the fuck back to work.”

And the communication is off.  
Curt closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then a second one.  
He doesn’t know what he hates more at that instant: his boss, himself, or the fact that he’s obviously going to have to crawl back to Ethan asking for a teaming up.  
But, as always, he sucks it up and turns back.  
Ethan is still there, a few meters from him.

“That was your boss?” says the English man as he comes closer to him. “Seems like a tough one. I heard the yelling from here – but I didn’t catch a word, don’t worry. Just a big, long and loud yell,” he says, smiling, his hands in his pockets. “So, we team up? I was going to tell you that my boss told me yours was okay with the all collaboration thing, but you didn’t leave me the time to say so when you started to yell at me – I see where that comes from, now. Is that how you Americans work? I –”  
“Shut up.”

Curt stops him in extending his hand, and then pinches the bridge of his nose and takes another deep breath.

“Okay, man. Sorry. I just –”  
“I said shut up!”

Ethan takes his hands out of his pockets and rises them in submission as Curt tries to calm himself down. When he feels like he can look at Ethan without wanting to punch him, he opens his eyes and says, in the calmest voice he can manage:

“I’ll be working with you. Because if I don’t, I’m a dead man. But this time, I won’t let you mess anything up, because if I do, I’m also a dead man. So I don’t care how many more months than me you’ve got in the field, or how tremendous you think you are: this time, I’m calling the shots, and you better be listening to me. Am I clear?”

A few seconds of silence pass before Ethan answers:

“Okay, man. Whatever you say.”  
“Yes. Whatever I say.”

The silence lasts a little longer as they stare at each other.

“So… what do we do, now, boss?” Ethan smirks.  
“Now you will go follow the Australian guy, and I’ll take care of the Russian.”  
“So when you say you’re calling the shots, what you mean is you keep the most interesting part to yourself, right?”  
“Has your Russian got any better since last time?”  
“I’m afraid not.”  
“Then we do as I say. Meet me tomorrow morning in the park downstairs so we can exchange means of communication and I’ll have had time to think of a plan.”

And, without turning back, Curt leaves toward the stairs.

***

What he doesn’t expect to see the next morning, after another sleepless night spent revising his file and trying to find the connections of the Russian ambassador, is Ethan going out of his hotel at the same time as him.  
He stops in his track. The other sees him, smiles and waves.

“Morning, love.”  
“Have you been following me?” asks Curt coldly.  
“What? No. I thought you had. After all your speech last night–”  
“Let’s get back in,” interrupts Curt while turning on his heels. “Which room are you in?” he mumbles as they start up the stairs.  
“So you’ve been following me. I must admit I’m feeling a bit flattered, but–”  
“Which room?”  
“213.”

They climb the rest of the way and cross the corridor in silence. Curt stops in front of the door and Ethan opens it, taking the key from his pocket. Once it’s closed behind them, he says:

“I didn’t follow you. I’m staying at this hotel too.”  
“Really? What a coincidence.”

A quick look around the room indicates to Curt that last time was not a trick: that guy really is messy.

“Or is it,” he sighs.

Since there’s only one chair, he pushes some clothes away on the bed and sits on it.

“Yeah, I guess both our agencies agree that you can’t spend too much on lodging. But it’ll make it easier for us to communicate, right? Maybe next time we should ask for only one room, that way it’ll–”  
“Hopefully there won’t be a next time,” cuts Curt.

Leaning on the backrest of the chair, Ethan pauses and gives half a smile.

“Right. Because you hate me.”  
“I don’t… this has nothing to do with how I feel with you personally,” says Curt while rubbing his eyes.  
“Oh, really?”

Curt sighs again, then looks at him and says :

“I’ve spent the night thinking about the mission.”  
“Yeah, it shows.”

He gives Ethan a hard look.

“On your face, I mean,” adds Ethan.

Curt takes out a cigarette and puts it between his lips.

“Could you not do it here, please?” asks Ethan. “I don’t like to sleep in the smell of ashes.”

With a sigh, he puts it back in his pocket.

“So, what’s your plan?”

***

Curt gets rid of Ethan as soon as he can while still making sure he understood everything – and everything he can’t do, mostly. He knows that Ethan is, like him, a trained spy, and should possess all of this basic knowledge, but some part of himself can’t trust him entirely: because he’s English, because he’s messy, and because their last mission was as far as could be from a rousing success. And, damn, Curt can’t even trust himself, how can he trust someone else? His own mother only understands what she wants to, none of his ex-girlfriends lasted long enough to earn his trust, his job doesn’t let him have any real friend, and Cynthia… well, Cynthia would sacrifice him on the first altar to performance she would find if she could.  
So no, he’s not going to trust and English guy whose name he doesn’t even know and who has already proven to be a liability in the past.  
Ethan’s job is simple: follow the Australian prime minister during his stay in Singapore, and get in touch with Curt if anything unusual occurs. He has tried to protest that he could be more of use elsewhere, but Curt didn’t let him get through with his complaints : he will let Ethan play a part in this mission, but he chooses which one – that means, the one where he is susceptible to cause the less damage.  
Meanwhile, his own job is to infiltrate the Russian embassy to find out who is the head blackmailer who wants the list of the Australian secret agents and their positions on the globe.  
He already knows that, though bulky, he doesn’t look Russian enough to pretend to be one of them. Obviously, he also can’t act as a Chinese man. So his best bet is to take somewhat of a German accent and hope that not too many people talk to him.  
Once inside, a case in his hand and glasses on his nose, he acts as if he belongs and, when asked, pretends to have an appointment with someone or the other. The goal, for know, is to take his marks inside the building, see who works here, find the inside mechanisms and relationships, to then be able to use them and find the mastermind.  
Going from one room to one corridor, always in movement, always looking busy, he starts to understand how these people are connected to each other, who is the boss and who he can ignore. Of course, he does take in account all of the little employees, those who may think they don’t have the recognition they deserve and are ready to do everything to get it. Those are usually the most dangerous – especially in today’s USSR’s communism. The ones already in place, like the ambassador, usually get cold feet and hold on to their job while doing nothing that might jeopardize it – which means nothing at all, most of the time.  
It’s a little past noon when he hears word from Ethan: the prime minister is going outside for lunch, with a man not known to the MI6 as far as Ethan is concerned, and who doesn’t really look like a politician.

“I can handle it,” says Ethan on the coms. “It’s just lunch. I’ll eavesdrop and call you if anything eventful happens.”  
“No. I’m coming.”

Curt doesn’t really like abandoning the embassy, but that lunch is the best lead they have so far. He asks Ethan to send him the address of the restaurant and gets in his car.

***

Their table is on the opposite side of the room from the prime minister’s, but the restaurant is small.

“Excuse me?” says Ethan to the waitress. “My friend over here has a bit of a headache and doesn’t really feel comfortable this close to the windows. Can we be moved to another table?”

She nods and sits them right behind the Australian man.

“See?” smiles Ethan.  
“Why was I the one with the headache?” whispers Curt.  
“Well, you look like shit. It made it believable.”

Curt grumbles. He actually does have a bit of a headache – but he will never admit it out loud.

“What, you didn’t seriously think that those glasses did hide your dark circles? Cause they don’t, man. When was the last time you slept?”

Curt waves his question off with a flick of the hand.

“Doesn’t matter.”

From where he’s seated, he can only see the back of the prime minister’s head, but half of his interlocutor’s face is visible. His looks are quite common, with brown hair and eyes, and a nose a little too long for his face. He’s got thin lips and fat fingers, and doesn’t seem like the type of guy who appreciates jokes. Curt looks elsewhere before the other notices him.

“Steve didn’t seem too happy to see him,” says Ethan.  
“Steve?”

Ethan widens his eyes and, with a sign of the head, indicates the Australian politician.  
Curt nods.  
Ethan is seated just behind the prime minister, and can’t see anything of the scene, but he’s closer to them, and able to hear.  
Apart from the moment when they order, their meal passes in silence, Curt watching and Ethan listening. At some point, Ethan grabs Curt’s napkin, writes a note on it and gives in back to him. “the docks, 11pm” reads Curt before spilling water on it, dissolving the ink.  
They finish their lunch before the others and leave the restaurant.

“Did you hear anything else?” asks Curt once they’re outside.  
“The new man – he seemed to be named Doug – said something about a deal and each part having to uphold its end. He didn’t get anymore specific, but I think we’ve got our man.”

Curt nods.

“You keep an eye on the prime minister for the rest of the day, and I’ll follow that Doug.”  
“So you’re really gonna give yourself all of the most interesting parts of the job? You don’t trust me, that’s it?”  
“No, I don’t.”

Ethan laughs.

“At least you’re honest.”  
“I already told you. I can’t mess it up.”  
“But guess what, love: you’re not my boss.”  
“No. But we’re a team.”  
“We are,” smiles Ethan. “So if I decide to go after Doug, what will you do?”  
“Don’t make it any harder than it is.”  
“Or what, love?” insists Ethan with his stupid crooked smile.  
“You really want me dead, do you?” sighs Curt.  
“No, I just want to have some fun too.”  
“So that’s what it is to you, then? Fun?”  
“What, not to you?”  
“I don’t do this for fun! I do this because it’s my job!”  
“If you just wanted a job, why didn’t you choose to do something else, then?”  
“Shut up.”  
“I’m just saying that–”  
“Shut up. They’re going out,” interrupts Curt, looking over Ethan’s shoulder. He then looks him dead in the eye and asks: “Are you gonna do what I asked you too?”

Ethan sighs.

“Yeah. But don’t get me wrong, love: this conversation is far from over.”  
“Just do your job,” sighs Curt as he starts trailing Doug.

***

Doug goes nowhere near the Russian embassy for the rest of the day. He doesn’t even seem to be meeting with anyone even resembling a Russian person. Is he really their guy? Is he even Russian? And, mostly, who is he? All he seems to be doing is hanging around the city, saying hi to very different people, never having a long conversation with any of them, or even saying anything suspect, from what Curt hears.  
Doug has dinner alone, in another restaurant, on the opposite side of town from the docks. He then returns to what seems to be his hotel and doesn’t seem ready to go out.  
As the time grows closer, Curt hesitates: should he stay here and watch his target, or abandon him and go to the docks?  
His watch beeps with a call from Ethan.

“Rick,” he answers.  
“I’m at the meeting point. So is our dear Steve” whispers Ethan.  
“That’s not his name.”  
“Well, Rick’s not yours either but you don’t see me complaining. Where are you?”  
“At… Clark’s hotel.”  
“Please don’t tell me that’s his real name.”  
“It’s not.”  
“Are you coming? Steve is parked next to a container.”  
“Clark doesn’t seem to be moving.”

There’s a silence, they Ethan says:

“Okay, so why don’t you keep babysitting him while I’m at the heart of the action?”

Curt sighs.

“Which dock are you at?”

He’s sure he can hear Ethan smiling.

***

“So you didn’t want to miss the show?” whispers Ethan with a smirk as Curt slides next to him.

He doesn’t answer.  
They’re hidden behind a container, a few meters away from the car of the Australian prime minister.

“His diplomatic visit ends tomorrow,” says Ethan as Curt takes out his gun, “so if something’s happening, it’s tonight. Clark still was at the hotel when you left?”  
“If he wasn’t he’s pretty good.”

Another car approaches the first one. It stops, and the driver door opens, letting a man out.

“Well I guess he’s pretty good, then,” huffs Ethan. “You really didn’t see him leaving?”  
“He could have left after me” Curt mumbles. “I got here before him, after all.”  
“You tell yourself that, love,” says Ethan without looking at him.

Curt doesn’t answer – him too is focused on the action. They see the back door of the Australian prime minister’s car open, and Doug get into it before it’s closed.

“Shit”, says Curt as he arms his gun. “Oh no, I won’t let that happen."  
“Don’t worry,” says Ethan to try to calm him down. The two bodyguards are still out. They won’t be leaving.”  
“I’m not worried about them leaving. I’m worried about them doing things I can’t see. Cover me.”

Without waiting for an answer, he scurries to the next container and, once hidden there, quickly signals for Ethan to join him.

“What are you doing?” whispers Ethan when he’s next to him, his tone more urgent than before.  
“I’m stopping whatever’s going on in this car.”  
“Oh yeah, and what’s your plan? Shooting everything up?”

Looking him dead in the eye, Curt answers:

“Why not?”

He starts to the next container, bur Ethan catches his arm and stops him.

“You can’t do that! We’re just here to get the list! If you shoot, they’ll know we’re here and will stop everything!”  
“And if I don’t do anything, they might slip under our noses and we would have been useless. Which one do you prefer?”  
“The one where no innocent people get killed?”  
“Innocent,” snorts Curt.

He shakes his head and Ethan’s hand off, and leaves to get closer to the car. Once hidden, he signal to Ethan to go on the other side. He sees him hesitate, but comply in the end.  
Ethan is right. What he has barely resembles a plan. But better that than to watch this opportunity slip by.

“Shoot the tires,” he whispers in his watch.

He sees Ethan nod.  
Without waiting any longer, he shoots. There’s a huge bang as the tire explodes, and another not long after, when Ethan imitates him. The two goons waiting outside take out their guns, and Curt shoots it out of the first one hand before aiming for the second one’s leg, who collapses to the floor groaning while the other yelps.

“Stay hidden,” says Curt into his watch as he gets up and walks out in the open, his gun forward.

His pace is assured and, without a second thought, he shoots the first man in the head, but hasn’t got the time to get to the second one: a door of the car opens. He aims his gun in that direction. He first see the prime minister’s head, but quickly he notices his extended arms and, behind him, Doug pointing a gun at his back.  
Half-hidden by the door, Doug smiles at him.

“You do anything, our dear friend dies.”  
“He’s not my friend.”  
“Oh, I’m not talking about the prime minister right here. I’m talking about your other friend. The one you had lunch with today.”

Curt doesn’t flinch.

“I don’t know who you’re babbling about.”

He’s not as assured inside as he is outside: he may not like Ethan, but he doesn’t want him dead. And he certainly knows that, even if he did, Cynthia would never forgive him if that happened – and her wrath is not something he’s willing to risk.

“Come on, stop pretending: we all know why you’re here. What are you, CIA?”

Curt doesn’t answer.

Doug laughs. “Yeah, if I believe your accent, CIA. Well, let me tell you, you’re not very discreet: I noticed you straight away. Did you enjoy the trip around the city? I took you to see all the best sights in town.”  
“No one will get hurt if you just give me the list.”  
“Oh, now, we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Curt hears a shuffling to his right and quickly shoots that way, barely sparing a glance. A cry tells him he’s got the second bodyguard. But before he can point his gun back on Doug, he can see that Doug’s gun is on him.

“You may not care about your friend, my dear stalker, but you probably care about yourself, right?”

Curt laughs internally.

“I wouldn’t be here if I did,” he answers while taking a step forward, placing his gun back on Doug.  
“Oh, you don’t want to do that. See, I was not kidding about your friend.”

He nods his head toward his right, and man comes out, holding Ethan by his arms.

“And you’ve only got one bullet left”, adds Doug. “So, what is it going to be? Are you going to shoot me or are you going to save your friend?”

Curt stares at Ethan, meeting his eyes. His chest tightens.

“As I said: He’s not my friend.”

What would Cynthia condemn the most? If he saves Ethan, he gets shot but Ethan can take care of Doug and of the list. If he shoots Doug, Ethan probably dies, but he can save the prime minister, put him under his protection and get the list back himself.  
He shouldn’t care about Ethan. Not when he can solve this mission by himself. Damn, it would have been easier if he had been by himself. He wouldn’t have had to face that kind of dilemma. Now, whatever he does, he’s going to have to pay for it.

“He’s my partner,” he mutters between his teeth.

He shoots.  
And, just a few seconds later, he feels a white pain in the left shoulder.

He stumbles backward and closes his eyes, yelling: “Get him!”

He sucks air between his teeth, and opens his eyes, just to see if Ethan is free of his captor, as planned.  
He is. But two other men are on him – where did they come from? Curt drops on his knees and, holding his gun tightly in his shaking left hand, he takes out a charger from his back pocket with his right and unloads, then loads, it. It takes longer than it should, but he focuses on getting this done.  
Doug has retreated behind the prime minister and stopped caring about him. That would be his mistake.  
With Ethan still fighting the two – no, only one left – that attacked him, Curt knows he has to act before it’s too late. He switches the gun in his right hand and aims – he’s still shaky, but he trusts his competences. With difficulty, he stands up. He doesn’t have much of a window, but that will have to be enough.  
He fires.  
Doug’s head disappears.  
The Australian prime minister collapses.  
Curt’s own vision goes blurry, but he forces himself to stay focused. Ethan is still fighting the last man. Curt takes a step toward the car, then another. His shoulder pulses so strongly he thinks it might be burning – and, with each moves he makes, it gets worse. But he keeps moving. Around him, the world starts turning on itself. He’s almost there.

“Rick!” he hears through the fog of the noises and forms around him.

Looking around – trying to – he sees that Ethan is the last man standing – or rather, running to him.  
He reaches the open door of the car and leans on it. Behind it, he sees two curled bodies: Doug’s is now amputated of his upper part. The Australian prime minister is shaking, curled in a ball.

“The… list,” he asks through gritted teeth.

The prime minister keeps sobbing.  
Ethan reaches him and puts his hand on his good shoulder.

“Rick, are you alright?”  
“The list,” repeats Curt.

Ethan nods and takes his hand off his shoulder, before kneeling next to the Australian.  
Curt hears that they’re talking, but staying awake already takes all of his energy, so he doesn’t understand what they say. He notices that the prime minister gets up, and that Ethan goes briefly in the car and gets out with some papers that he folds into his jacket.  
Curt’s knees grow weak, and he collapses.

“Rick!” yells Ethan again. “Stay with me, man. You’re losing a lot of blood.”  
“… M’fine,” is all Curt is able to mutter.  
“Okay, sit here” says Ethan while helping him sit against the car. I’ll call your handler and we’ll get you taken care of, alright?”  
“No!” yells Curt.

At least, he means to yell, but that comes out as a cough.

“Don’t call…”

But Ethan is already fumbling with his watch, and soon he hears Cynthia’s voice and winces.  
For the first time in his life maybe, he’s unable to understand what she says, but judging from her tone, that’s the angrier he’s ever heard her – and that says a lot.  
_If I die, I won’t have to face her_ is his last conscious thought before he passes out.

***

The first thing he’s aware of when he emerges is the pain in all of his upper body. He moans.

“Slow down, love,” he hears hurriedly above him, with some shuffling noise.

With all the strength he can manage, he opens his eyes.  
He’s in his hotel room, on his hotel bed.  
No.  
Not his room.  
Ethan’s.  
Ethan is standing next to him, a sorry smile on his curved lips.

“How are you feeling?”  
“The… list?” he asks, with the feeling that the volume of his tongue has tripled and that he hasn’t drank for a week.  
“The mission’s fine”, Ethan brushes off with a wave of his hand. “But you, on the contrary, are not.”  
“I’m… fine”, answers Curt, trying to mimic his gesture – but only enhancing a stinging pain when he so much as move his fingers.

He winces. Ethan sighs.

“Whatever you say, love. But anyway, The Australian prime minister is sent back to Australia, but when he arrives he will no longer be prime minister and will have to answer a lot of question – in secret, of course. I got the list, I’m back in London by the first plane in the morning and I’ll deliver it. Your agency will get a copy, of course. And I threw both cars and all the bodies in the port. The chance that they’ll ever be found is very close to none, and even if they are, nothing will link them to us. As for you,” he sits on the edge of the bed, “I called your agency and they sent a doctor here, who mended your shoulder and left you to my good care for the rest of the night.”

Curt tries to sit and moans.

“Wow, not so fast, love!” says Ethan, extending his hands. “You should rest.”  
“…Water,” groans Curt.  
“Oh, yeah, sorry.”

Ethan gets up and fusses around the room, finally getting back with a flask.

“Sorry, I don’t have any water right on hand, but that should do it.”

Curt tries to hold his hand, but the pain is too strong.

“Here, let me help you.”

Reluctantly, Curt lets Ethan help him to sit, and then put the flask to his lips. The taste is strong and sharp.

“It’s whisky,” explains Ethan – as if he needed to.

After a few mouthful, Curt shakes his head. Ethan withdraws the flask.

“What did she say?” asks Curt with a more assured voice.  
“Your boss?” answers Ethan while closing the flask. “Quite the woman, huh?”  
“What did she say?” Curt insists.  
“That you have until tomorrow night to rest and then you better be on the first plane, or she’ll have to come here and drag you back yourself. With a much more colorful language, of course.”

Ethan smiles, but this time there’s caution in it. Curt closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath.

“You’re going to the airport in the morning, right?”  
“Yeah. I’m leaving at 7.”  
“I’ll come with you.”  
“You’re not fit for that.”

Curt opens his eyes and stares at him.

“I won’t be fit for that twelve hours later either.”

Reluctantly, Ethan nods.  
There’s silence for a few seconds, as Curt tries to get used to the pain. He can feel the bandage around his left arm and shoulder. Outside it’s still night, which means that only a few hours have passed since he was shot. Already his head is getting clearer, despite the meds and the alcohol. And, for a second, the idea of facing Cynthia Houston makes him wish he was dead.

“That was pretty stupid, what you did,” says Ethan – stopping him from lingering too much on this idea.  
“That’s what she said, right?”

He smiles, but nothing about it is happy.  
Ethan smiles too.

“Yeah. But… I mean, you could easily have avoided getting shot.”  
“I figured I had a better chance if I freed you.”  
“A better chance at what? Survival?” huffs Ethan. “Cause I’m not really sure about that.”  
“If I get shot but we still get the list, I get half an hour of insults and I’m filing paperwork for a couple of months. If you get shot, I’m probably never setting foot on the field ever again – and that’s if I survive the interview.”

Ethan looks at him for a few seconds before saying:

“If you get shot, you get shot. If I get shot, you still fulfill the mission.”

Curt’s laugh is joyless.

“Yeah, you go say that to Cynthia.”  
“That’s her name? Your boss, I mean?”

Curt closes his mouth. Damn meds. He’s said too much.

“Why am I in your room?” he finally asks.  
“I didn’t know which one was yours.”

Again, the cautious smile.  
With the help of his valid hand, Curt pushes the cover and tries to sit on the edge of the bed. He waits a few seconds, until his head stops spinning.

“I’ll go pack my stuff and meet you back here around six thirty.”  
“You need help?”  
“Nah.”

He waits a few seconds, then says:

“Actually, where’s my shirt?”

***

It took Curt all of his willpower to emerge from his sleep at six. When he reached his room, he collapsed on his bed fully dressed and instantly fell in a med-induced sleep. His packing after is a lot messier than he would have liked, but he can’t do better.  
He goes back to Ethan’s room with difficulty, and he doesn’t think twice when offered whisky – again. Not on the job, says a voice in the back of his mind. But, after all, he’s not even sure he’ll still have a job when he lands in the US.  
Once inside the airport, Ethan extends his hand toward him.

“I hope you get well soon, man.”

Curt shakes it and nods.  
Ethan seems to hesitate, then says:

“And thanks. You probably did save my life.”  
“I did my job.”

Ethan still holds his hand a few seconds before letting go. Curt catches his fingers before they slip totally.

“You should keep an eye on it,” he says with precipitation.

Ethan frowns.

“On what?”  
“We may have gotten Doug, but I feel like it’s not the bottom of this case. I won’t be able to do anything for I don’t know how long, so… keep an eye out.”

Ethan nods slowly while examining him carefully.

“Okay. I will.”

Curt nods, his lips tight, and finally lets go of him.  
Ethan stares at him a bit more, then takes a few steps backward and, with a last salute of his hand, turns around and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun! blood! depression!
> 
> A couple days ago, i listened to "Eyes wide, tongue tied" by The Fratellis and remembered that this wole record is perf for Curt and Owen.  
> Just saying.


	3. Leningrad – September 1952

“Ah, Mega, finally. Sit.”

Curt cautiously closes the door of Cynthia Houston’s office behind him and takes place on the sit she points.

“So, I’m going to make it short,” she says while lightning a cigarette “I’m expecting an important phone call in a minute.” She exhales, then continues: “You remember Singapore?”

Curt flexes his left hand. Of course he remembers Singapore. And so does she, as she’s kept reminding him every occasion she got in the past months. He prepares himself for another sequence on the receiving end of insults.

“I remember,” he simply answers.  
“Good. Apparently, that British guy you met there has requested you for another fucking mission. Don’t ask me what he sees in you, I have no fucking idea, but the file says that it’s for a follow up to what happened over there. Turns out the guy you took down wasn’t even the final boss – and you even got shot for that,” she says with disdain. “Anyway, that British smartass figured that out, and now he’s waiting for you in Leningrad. Identity, details, contacts: everything is in this file” – she pushes it toward him. “Your plane leaves tonight.”

He takes the file in his hand and starts to open it. She cuts him:

“You’ll have time for that later. Now go, and don’t forget to thank that fucking lobster for getting you out of filing: if not for him, you’d have been there until retirement.”

The red phone starts ringing. Still staring at him, she puts her hand on it and concludes:

“Don’t you damn forget that.”

Then she picks up.

“Yes Vice-president,” hears Curt before closing the door.

***

When he gets out of the airport in Leningrad, after countless checking, he feels more full of energy than he has since he got shot. His shoulder, though not completely healed, is on the right path. It still hurts from time to time, when he stretches it too much, but right now, not even the pain, not even the cold, not even the fact that he’s on enemy ground can stop the rush of adrenaline going through his veins: it feels so good leaving all this damn paperwork in the past that he even catches himself smiling.  
As always, the hotel where he’s supposed to meet with Ethan – or whatever his name is this time – is a shabby one on the outskirts of town. There’s a dark bar on the opposite side of the street and, after checking the address is correct, that’s where he goes.  
The bar is even darker on the inside, and the people inside are as gloomy as the place – the low muttering in Russian, the heavy smell of vodka, the lack of light and heating; both apparently provided by the alcohol itself. He gives a quick look around him, then goes sit in a table in a corner even darker than the others.

“Privet,” he whispers as he sits in front of the man already there.

The other smiles and answer in a Russian that Curt qualifies, at best, as approximate:

“Nice to see you, Rick.”  
“You too, Ethan. Let’s order a vodka and get out of here.”

Ethan’s eyebrows rise.

“What happened to _not on the job_?”  
“It’s part of the job,” answers Curt before getting up and ordering two glasses at the bar.

When he comes back, they toast in silence and drink it in a shot. Then they clap the glasses on the table and go out.

“Let me guide you to our quarters,” says Ethan as they cross the street. “I guess your agency thought things would be easier if we shared a room.”

Curt snorts half-heartedly.

“Oh, they mostly thought they didn’t want to spare the funds.”

Ethan glances at him but doesn’t say anything until they reach the room on the second floor. It’s a small bedroom, with two small beds, one small table – and the content of Ethan’s small suitcase has already been spread everywhere.

“So, how have you been doing, man?” asks Ethan. “How’s your shoulder?”

As a reflex, Curt rolls it and flexes his finger.

“I’m fine.”

He sits on the least messy bed.

“I read your file. Do you have any more information?”  
“Not much. I’ve only been here a couple of days, but as you know, that’s where I suspect this organization is operating. All the intel I’ve gathered has led me here.”  
“That’s what I thought too. That it would lead either here or to Moscow.”  
“You’ve been working on it too?”

Curt nods.

“I didn’t have many opportunities to, but when I heard about the death of the Russian ambassador, I knew something was off.”  
“Did you try to talk about it to your boss?”  
“She told me the commies kept killing each other all the time.”  
“Not untrue,” Ethan snorts.  
“So I looked which members of western government had recently been in contact with members of the USSR government, who was still alive and who wasn’t and, well, my conclusions weren’t as precise as yours, but they pointed in the same direction.”  
“And your boss still didn’t believe you?” asks Ethan in a tone that shows that he himself can’t believe it.  
“Maybe she would, if she actually listened to me. But anyway. Why did you ask for me?”  
“I can’t do this by myself, and I’d rather work with someone who knows the case.”  
“I’m not sure I’m the best person.”  
“Why? You were there. You know what happened. You were the one who got a hunch about this being a bigger thing. And you worked out all this on your own. Where did you go to get all these information, by the way? I went back to Singapore for a start, but had to spend a few days in the Philippines and Vladivostok, not to mention Australia and New Zealand – and a good portion of western Europe. I didn’t see you anywhere, though.”

Curt flexes his finger, looking anywhere but at Ethan, before answering.

“I was at the CIA’s headquarter.”  
“Oh, yeah, for your recovery. But after?”

Another silence.

“I had paperwork to take care of.”

This time, it’s Ethan who doesn’t answer right away.

“You haven’t been on the field in three months?” he asks with disbelief.

Curt takes a deep breath. Now that’s sure, Ethan will rethink his idea of working together, send him back to the CIA, request a new partner, and himself will go back to burying himself in the basement under tones of paper files.

“And you still managed to gather all that intel?” continues Ethan. “You’re good.”

Curt raises his head and looks him in the eyes. Is he serious?

“I fucked the last two missions we had together and I haven’t set foot outside of a building for the past three month. I don’t think that’s the word you’re looking for,” he says with a smile that looks like a grimace.  
“Listen, love,” says Ethan assertively. “I don’t know where you got all of these ideas, but the fact that you got this far in your investigation while being stuck in a building proves, if I didn’t already know that, that you have resources and you know how to use them. So I can’t wait to see what you do now you’re out here.”

Well, you’re in for a big disappointment, thinks Curt – but he swallows it. Ethan doesn’t seem to want to send him back, so now he’ll just have to pretend – as usual. He can clearly see the eternity of filing waiting for him once this is over, but for now, he’ll take the pretending.  
Ethan comes and sits on the other bed, facing him. He extends his hand.

“I’m Owen. My real name, I mean. Owen Carvour.”

Curt looks at his hand and frowns.

“We’re not supposed to do that.”  
“Well, we’re spies, we do a lot of things we’re not supposed to,” he says with his crooked smile.

But, as Curt hesitates, he adds:

“Listen, love, I get it, you don’t trust me. But I trust you. You saved my life when you could have done otherwise and save your own ass. You gave me a track to follow when you didn’t have to and could have kept all the glory to yourself. Sure, sometimes you’re an ass. But, given what I’ve seen, I’d much rather count you as a friend than as a enemy. And, since we’re talking about trust, I know your name too – or your alias, maybe, I’m not sure.”

Curt tries to keep a neutral face.

“How?” he manages to ask, his tongue dry.

Ethan – Owen – sighs.

“When you got shot and I used your watch. Before I could say who I was, your boss answered with the word ‘Mega’. So I don’t know if that’s your real name, your code name, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure I heard it right.”

The hand is still in front of him.  
Truth be told, that man probably saved his life too. And, he may be the messiest spy he’s ever met and a pain in the ass, but he still asked for him here.  
He wanted him here. And he thinks he’s good.  
That’s one hell of a lot more than all of the other people in his life right now.  
So, despite what all of his training taught him, and even if he knows he’s definitely going to prove Cynthia that he can disappoint her even more than he already does, Curt takes the hand in his and says:

“Curt Mega.”

 

***

 

“So this is the lady everything leads to?”

The photograph in Curt’s hand depicts a tall, slim woman, with white skin, long red hair and thin lips. Both him and Owen are still sitting on their own bed, papers spread around them.

“Yeah.”  
“She probably stands out in a crowd.”  
“Pretty, right?”  
“Hm. I was thinking more of her hair.”  
“Yeah, that too.”  
“So, any idea where to find her? This isn’t a small city.”  
“Not precisely,” Owen answers while picking another paper. “But I’ve mapped all the places she’s been seen or supposedly been seen, and I was able to reduce the area to a single borough.”

He hands Curt a map, where red and orange dots are scattered.

“The red are—”  
“—where she’s been seen, and the oranges are the supposedly. I get it. The bigger the dot, the more she’s been seen?”

Owen smiles.

“Right.”  
“And that’s all you got in these couple of days?”  
“Yeah, didn’t really have the time to do more – and I couldn’t exactly go around asking about her.”  
“Not with that accent, no,” says Curt while still looking at the map.

Owen laughs lightly. Curt raises his eyes. The smile is still there.

“That,” comments Owen, “and the fact that she clearly doesn’t want to be found. I mean, this indicates where she’s been seen in the past three years.”  
“Does that lady have a name?”  
“Not one that I know of. So far, I’ve referred to her as Steve.”

Curt arcs an eyebrow.

“You seem to have a restricted amount of code names to give people.”  
“Uh?”  
“The Australian prime minister, in Singapore. You also called him Steve.”

Owen laughs.

“I didn’t remember that. But yeah, I use it often. It’s easy to remember.”  
“As long as you don’t use it too often.”  
“Don’t worry, I never mess up my code names.”

Curt smiles briefly without looking at him. He the asks:

“And you’re positive Steve is in the city these days?”  
“Yes. I’ve heard from some contacts that assured me she was. That’s what triggered my travel. I jumped on a plane as soon as I heard. And I made my boss call yours to get you here as well.”

Curt looks at him.

“And your boss let you leave like that?”  
“Yeah, of course. He’s one hundred percent behind me on that. He was pretty interested in the case when I told you about Singapore and your hunch, and I’ve kept him in touch after. He believes that’s huge.”

Curt stays silent for a few seconds, then asks:

“How huge?”  
“Double agent huge,” answers Owen without a hint of joke in his tone.

Curt definitely stares at him. He feels his anger rise again – long time no see, old friend.

“So that’s why you called me. Not because I knew the case, but because you were sure it wasn’t me. I gave you the hunch. I was immobilized and in recovery while the action continued. You don’t trust me. You trust that I’m not an enemy.”

Owen looks at him sheepishly.

“Is Owen even your real name?” asks Curt while violently dropping the map on the bed. He then sighs, looks at it, picks it up and waves his hand between him and Owen. “Don’t answer that.”  
“It is,” says Owen nevertheless. “And I did call you because I trusted you. Not only because I knew you and I were on the same side.”  
“And how do I know that we’re on the same side?”

Owen shrugs and smiles.

“Well, I called you, right?”

Curt drops the map again and takes his head between his hands, elbows on his knees.

“Listen, Owen – or whatever your name is—”  
“It’s Owen.”  
“—, I barely know you, and I have absolutely zero, zero reason to trust you.”  
“How about I saved your life?” asked Owen on a more aggressive tone – something Curt’s never heard in him.

That makes him look at Owen. The face he sees is serious, and even a bit angry. There’s not even a trace of the nonchalant man he thought he knew on it. Another reason.

“When you got shot,” Owen continues. “I called your boss, I made sure you got back to the hotel and got fixed, hell, I even went to buy your meds! How’s that for trust? And you never, ever, thanked me for that – and I get that, I do, at the time you were a bit shocked, and it’s not like you’ve been able to contact me since. But don’t say you have zero reason to trust me. I could have left you to die, and I didn’t.”  
Curt purses his lips in silence for a few seconds, then says: “And now we’re even. I saved your life, you saved mine.”

Owen sighs, turns his eyes and passes a hand through his hair.

“I get it, man,” he says in a calmer voice. “I shouldn’t have lied.”  
“No. You shouldn’t,” says Curt harshly.

Owen waits a few moments before looking back at him and saying, in a neutral voice.

“Will you work with me on that?”  
“What choice do I have?” mutters Curt while picking the map again.

Owen stays still a moment before going back to shuffling the papers on his bed.

“Next time you want something from me,” says Curt without looking at him, “ask. There’s no need to go all flattery.”

 

***

 

They decided to take a stroll in Steve’s borough, if only for Curt to know the place. He sternly forbid Owen to open his mouth once outside – his accent would rat them out quicker than if the word “spy” was written on their head. Curt’s Russian may not be perfect, but at least he can blend in.  
Wrapped in their coats and scarves to protect them from the biting wind, they walk the streets as if they had a purpose, not exchanging a word. The air between them is still cold, and not only because of the temperature. Ever since Owen’s revelation a couple hours ago, they have only talked about the mission, avoiding any word or tone even barely resembling cordiality. The good mood Curt was in when he landed seem to have gone missing for good. He’s not yet at the point where he wishes he had stayed filing other agent’s reports at the CIA, but that might come sooner than he thought.  
To distract himself from such thoughts, he tries to take in all he sees – the grim faces of the men; the houses falling down, holding up to scraps; the kids running; the smoke of the fires; the scarves of the women. He keeps hoping for a glimpse of red hair in the crowd, but he doubts he’ll be that lucky.  
At least, when they go back to the hotel, he has a clearer view of what he’s gotten himself into. The air also helped him cool his temper – quite literally: he feels too cold to be angry. Now he just wants to collapse on his bed, but he knows he can’t: there’s still so much to be done.

“Let’s have dinner,” he says in Russian, hoping Owen’s is good enough for him to understand.

He gets a nod in return.  
They enter a restaurant halfway in the range of what’s proposed in this city: not one of those fancy things where you need a bowtie to even be able to come in, neither one of those street stands that sells stuff they can’t recognize for half a coin. Just a small dark room, a little bit more lit than the bar they met at earlier – was it really the same day? – where there’s only one choice of food and vodka flows wildly.  
Curt orders two plates, and they eat in silence – either Owen takes very seriously his order to never open his mouth to talk, or he’s still mad at him. Whichever it is, it suits Curt perfectly.  
At least, that’s what he tells himself.  
With a full belly, the temptation of sleep is even stronger than before, but Curt knows he can’t give up to it.  
As soon as the door is closed and locked behind them, he starts expressing all of the thoughts that this stroll has given him.

“I don’t think that woman – or whatever organization she belongs to – is official.”  
“You say that because of what the borough look like? Don’t trust what you see. Those commies can hide themselves easily.”

Curt shakes his head while taking off his coat.

“Not just the borough – well, that too, but not only. I’ve been thinking about all we talked about. I mean, if there really was blackmailing at an official level, happening for so long, we’d know. Either your agency, or mine, but we’d know. We have double agents too. If something that huge was in motion, we would have heard of it one way or another. So if we haven’t until now, if the dots haven’t been connected yet, that means it happens outside of the box.”  
“And you saw all that this afternoon?” asks Owen, somewhat aggressively.

Curt sighs.

“I’ve only officially been on this for half a day. I’m just trying to make sense of what I learnt.”  
“And you think I haven’t already thought of that?” asks Owen while throwing his coat and scarf on his bed – they fall on the floor.  
“I think you’ve been inside of this story for months. You can’t look at it from a new angle.”  
“And you’ve been stuck in a building for months! What angle exactly do you think you can bring?”

Curt takes his words harder than a punch in his guts, but doesn’t show it. He just sits on his bed.

“What I’m saying,” he articulates with all the calm he can manage despite the nausea rising in his throat, “is that you’ve gathered your leads and you’ve already got your mind set on a certain path, whether you want it or not. I’m bringing a new eye on this. I don’t have preconceptions, since I didn’t know enough to have conceptions at all.”

The taste of bile in his mouth, Curt feels that there’s something off in the fact that he’s the one apologizing when it’s Owen who has been lying to him and lashing out without a reason.  
Owen lets out a breath when falling on his own bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a voice he can’t seem to control – because he’s still angry, probably. “I’m sure you didn’t choose to be stuck in that building.” He sighs, then shakes his head and meets Curt’s eyes. “And you’re right. This needs a new set of eyes. That’s partly why I called you.”

Curt barely refrains himself of asking how many “partly” reasons there are to Owen calling him – but, whatever they are, his competences don’t seem to be any one of them.

“So that’s what I’m doing,” he says instead. “Giving you my thoughts. And I think that all of this – all I’ve read, all I’ve seen, all you’ve described to me – doesn’t sound like the usual KGB way. So, in my opinion, either they branched out, or it isn’t them at all.”

Owen nods without answering. He then pulls a stack of paper from under his bed and starts shuffling through them. He finally asks out loud what Curt has been wondering for the past couple of hours.

“But if not them, then who?”  
“That’s what we’re here to find out, right?”

Owen smiles, even if only slightly. Curt can’t stop himself from smiling back.

 

***

 

Curt is awaken by a shake of his shoulder. He starts, hand going straight behind his pillow, where he usually hides his gun. But when he straightens, there’s only Owen – slick-wet-hair, serious-face, way-too-close-Owen. Curt forces himself to keep a straight face.

“Wake up,” says Owen while going backward. “I’ve just got word from one of my sources that there might be some new development. We gotta go meet them in forty-five minutes.”

Curt nods, then pushes the cover and grabs his shirt.

 

***

 

Half an hour later, they’re standing at the entrance of a park. Curt hasn’t had time to either shower or eat anything.

“Catch you later,” whispers Owen before entering the park, leaving him behind.

Curt straightens the neck of his coat, blows on his cold fingers and, a few seconds later, crosses the gate too. He takes a path different from Owen’s. While the British will be talking to his source, Curt will be monitoring the conversation from afar, making sure no enemy lurks around and ready to intervene if one does.  
Owen has refused to reveal the identity of his source, so Curt doesn’t know who or what to expect. And, when he asked Owen to tape the conversation, he took a refusal. Owen said his source was wary, and would check for the most obvious devices – and right now, so far from their home base, that’s all they have. That’s why Owen left with just his gun – he even left his own watch and tracker at the hotel. Curt didn’t say a word but, from Owen’s expression when their eyes met, the judgment was clear on his face.

“Sometimes you’ve got to live dangerously,” was all he said.

Curt sees Owen sitting on a bench, next to a dying bush. He sits himself a few paths away, somewhere with a clear enough view without being too visible himself – here’s again the question of the angle.  
A few minutes later, a woman with a green scarf comes take place next to Owen. He greats her with a long hug and, though Curt knows she’s probably doing her check for bugs, he can’t stop a ball of anger from forming in his chest: how can Owen be so reckless and let her get so close to him? She’s just a source, which means she could be an enemy! Unless they share a past – and an intimacy. He can’t deny having himself done that before, but still, Owen’s lack of prudence astounds him.  
He sees them talking, but they’re positioned in such a way that he can’t even see their lips to try and read them. Damn it, Owen. He must be doing that on purpose. Does he even see him? He hasn’t forgotten they’re here on a mission, right?  
And now Owen’s laughing and putting his hand on that woman’s cheek. Curt can’t bear to see that and looks around, to see if someone else’s watching them too.  
But no.  
There’s only him.  
At this early hour and in that cold, the park is almost empty, and most of the passerby just cross hurriedly between the greens already white and the bushes already losing their leaves. Curt would like to try and find a better point of view, but he knows that movement can be seen easier than stillness. So he stays where he is and looks back at Owen and his source.  
Oh great, now they’re holding hands.  
And still chatting, still laughing. She pats her head scarf, and he brushes his hair back, looking at her with his crooked smile. At some point, he shifts enough that Curt can see his mouth. He doesn’t get most of the sentence, but the end is perfectly clear. Love.  
Curt feels his heart grow cold.  
Does he really just go around calling everybody that?  
Probably, from what he knows. Hell, that guy is a seducer, a fast talker, a sweet mouth. He probably lulls everyone he meets with his posh accent and his compliments he thinks nothing of to make them think he cares about them, when actually he’s just using them.  
Like that woman.  
Like him.  
Curt averts his eyes as Owen leans to kiss the woman on the cheek.  
He shouldn’t concern himself with how Owen gets his intel, as long as he does. And if that woman can lead them to Steve – what a stupid code name –, then to hell with all that. He doesn’t want to come back empty handed to Cynthia, whatever the price is. Whatever he tells himself, he’s happier here with lying, flirty Owen, than he was filing paperwork in the basement of the CIA.  
Owen and the woman finally get up and, after a last hug, leave their separate ways. Curt waits a few seconds before standing up too and gaining the exit.  
He meets Owen a few streets further, after making sure he wasn’t followed. He falls in pace with him and, checking no one can hear them, asks in a whisper:

“So, how was Steve?”

Owen actually scoffs before answering.

“Which one?”  
“Green scarf Steve.”  
“That’s Brenda.”  
“Real name?”  
“No.”  
“So how was she?”  
“Well, she knows someone, who know someone, who might know someone who could know where Steve is going to be tonight.”

Curt rolls his eyes. All this for that?

“Tell me at least you know where is that where.”  
“I do.”

When Owen doesn’t add anything more, Curt sighs:

“Well, I guess we’re about to discover Leningrad’s delightful nightlife.”

 

***

 

The where is a small decrepit house in the borough they visited yesterday, with no openings except for a rusty door. All windows are blocked with scraps of wood and metal. They stalk it for most of the afternoon, from the basement of the opposite house – even more decrepit and, more importantly, empty. At nightfall, they see a handful of people be ushered inside by a silhouette they can’t properly see.

“Do you think that’s her?” whispers Curt at some point.  
Owen shrugs. “She could be any of those cloaked figures that came in.”

When the night has set, they can see a flicker of light come through the obscured openings. After not seeing anyone go in for the past half hour, Curt starts checking his gun and ammunition.

“What are you doing?” asks Owen, his voice tracing white smoke in the cold dark air.  
“I’m going in.”  
“Are you fucking serious?!” he exclaims, before lowering his voice and repeating: “Are you fucking serious?”  
“We want to know what’s happening in there, right?”  
“Not by going inside!”  
“Why not? What are we going to learn by staying here? That some dark hooded figures got inside, and maybe outside, of that house? Big deal. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on handing in a report that says that.”

Owen sighs.

“You don’t know what’s in there.”  
“That’s exactly my point.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Owen says:

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”  
“Well, apparently that’s the only one we got.”

He hears Owen curse under his breath, then say:

“I should be the one going in there.”  
“No.”  
“Why not? I know the case better than you.”  
“That’s why. If I don’t come back, you’ll still be able to continue.”

There’s silence, and Owen distinctly says:

“Fuck.”  
“Don’t worry, I’ll be stealthy,” says Curt with a smile – though the other can’t see it in the dark.  
“You better. And you better not ruin everything we’ve done so far.”

Curt knows he can’t promise anything, so he doesn’t answer. He just finishes checking his things – gun, ammo, tracker – that’s all he needs, right?

“You really act like you got a dead wish, right?” mutters Owen.

Curt doesn’t want to answer that either, so he says:

“If I’m not back in an hour, call for reinforcement and solve the case.”  
“If you’re not back in an hour,” says Owen in a tone where Curt can be sure he hears his eyebrows rising, “I’m coming in to drag you out.”  
“Now _that’s_ the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

And, on these last words, Curt leaves the basement.

 

***

 

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Curt is not back. Owen hesitates. His guts tell him to go inside, but he knows he shouldn’t think with his guts. He’s a spy, the only thing he should be thinking with is his mind.  
And Curt was right. If he goes in, then both of them might be falling into the same trap, and then no one will be left to save the day. So he does as he was told, because Curt, despite his outer bravado and his annoying tendency to put himself in danger, actually has the other even more annoying tendency to be right.  
At this point, either Curt had been caught and killed, caught and imprisoned, or he’s just waiting for the right time to come back. Either way, there’s not much Owen can do for him.  
He’s about to call his handler to explain the situation when the door of the house opens. A sudden beat of his heart makes him think it’s Curt.  
It’s not.  
It’s a group of three people, still wearing cloaks. Considering there’s more people inside, he doesn’t know whether he should follow them or wait for the next batch. But, as one of them turns, he catches a glimpse of red hair in the shining light of the moon.  
Before leaving the basement, he has a last hope that Curt is still alive and will find a way out.

 

***

 

The group splits along the way, but Owen follows the redhead woman. She leads him into another part of town, as flourishing as the one they left. Since it’s the middle of the night, they’re almost alone in the streets, if you except the few drunkards and beggars. She eventually turns in an alleyway even darker than the dark alleyways she turned in before. Still on tiptoes, Owen follows her.  
He’s greeted after the corner by a knife to his throat.  
The woman whistles something in Russian, where he understands the words “name” and “kill”.

“Please don’t hurt me” he says in a scared tone and his sloppy Russian accent – one of the few sentences he knows – while raising his arms.

Even in the darkness and under her cloak, he can see her glaring at him.

“Tell me your name or I kill you”, she repeats in English with a strong accent.  
“I’m Karl!”  
“Liar,” she asserts, rolling her Rs. “Are you working with the other English man?”

Her accent may be thick, but her English is good.

“Who are you talking about? I just got lost!”

Owen keeps playing the dumb guy role. If she doesn’t buy it, it might at least give him time to reverse the situation.

“Liar,” she repeats. “You followed me since I left the house. You’re not as discreet as you think. Like your friend. He’s dead, now.”

Owen’s stomach turns into a knot, but he tries to ignore it.

“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about! I’m just… just trying to get back to my hotel! Please don’t kill me!”  
“I’m not killing you.”

He lets a sigh of relief escape his lips.

“I’m going to make you say everything you know and who you work for,” she adds.

Well, crap. Time to stop playing.  
In a swift gesture, he knocks her hand holding the knife – it slightly cuts his throat, but nothing he can’t handle – and catches the blade while twisting her arms to hold her against him, putting the knife against her throat.

“I don’t think that’s how things will go, love,” he whispers in his ear.

His guts tell him to cut her throat to avenge Curt, but, again, he mustn’t listen to his guts.

“I think you’ll be the one doing the talking today,” he adds before pushing her against the wall, knocking her head against it so that she passes out.

At that hour of the night, it will be easier to carry an unconscious body in the street than a struggling woman.

 

***

 

When she wakes up in the dark basement where he’s taken her – one of the MI6 hideouts in the city, for this type of situation –, he’s standing behind the chair where he’s tied her. He looks at her struggling against the tight rope for a couple of minutes before moving.  
In the time she was out, he’s contacted his boss, informing him of the situation – his and Curt’s – and asking for reinforcements and a way to get the woman out of Russia. And, while things are moving on the other end of the line, he’s going to get the most out of her.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks while shuffling toward her, hands in his pockets.

She tries to turn her head toward him, but he shushes her and turns her head forward with his hand as he passes next to her.

“No need to twist your neck, love,” he smiles, “I’m right here.”

She spits in his face before starting to talk very quickly in Russian. Owen catches a few insults, enough to know it’s all she’s saying. That’s where Curt would have been helpful.  
Again, his stomach turns heavy at that thought, but he represses this, straightening up while he wipes the spit off his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

“If I were you, I’ll save my saliva: who knows how long you’re gonna spend without drinking water?”

She glares at him in silence as he moves back, grabs another chair and slides it against the concrete floor. He sits on it, the backrest between his widespread legs.

“Now tell me, love: what’s your name? I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

She keeps her mouth shut, her lips getting even thinner than they were – if that’s possible.

“So you’re gonna let me make all of the conversation? That’s sad. I was actually very excited about getting to know you.” He leans forward, balancing the chair on two feet. “So tell me, what will I have to do to get you to talk? Do you want me to buy you flowers? Take you out to dinner? Or… break your fingers? Cut your ears? Remove your eyes? Tell me, love: what will it take?”

She still glares at him, not even seeming to react to his words.

“Still nothing to say? You’re really not helping.”

He gets up and pushes his chair, that crashes to the floor. Leaning toward her, his hands on his knees, he says:

“I’m a nice guy, so here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna tell you what I know, and you’re gonna tell me how right I am. Alright, love?”

Still smiling, he raises a hand and puts it on her cheek. She flinches, but doesn’t try to escape. After a few seconds, he pats her, then stands back up and goes behind her.

“So here’s what I know. A lot of western countries leaders and members of governments have been dying in the past few years, and a lot of confidential information have been escaping them and finding itself into the wrong hands – I mean yours, love. Oh, of course, we have been able to recover and prevent a good part of it, but not all. So, you know, since it would be a wonder that all of those great people decided to just hand you this intel, my take is that –” he crouches in front of a bag, where he starts to dig into metal tools “– you, love, managed to get some dirt on them and decided to use it to get intel to help dear old USSR” – he says that with a Russian accent – “to get the upper hand in this conflict and be one step ahead.”

He gets up, a heavy tool in his hand, and walks back to her. Leaning behind her, he whispers in her hear:

“So tell me, love: how right am I?”

She flinches when he puts his hand on her shoulder. As she still doesn’t answer after a few seconds, he adds:

“You know, if you don’t tell me a thing, I’m not gonna lie: I’m gonna enjoy the hell out of getting the words out of you.”

With that, he drags his hand over her shoulders, eliciting a shiver in her, and crouches in front of her, passing the wrench from one hand to the other.

“Still nothing, uh?” he says after a few seconds of silence. “Okay, then: let the fun begin.”

Again, he pats her on the cheek and then, in a quick movement, hits her in the knee joint with the tool.  
She jolts as much as her cuffs let her and a cry escape her lips.  
He puts his hand on the hurt knee and uses it to straighten himself.

“That was just a warning, love,” he whispers inches to her face. “Next time, I’ll break it.” Towering over her, he finishes at a normal volume: “So why don’t you avoid that and tell me who you’re working with?”  
“Never,” she hisses in English.

He shrugs.

“Alright.”

She yells again as the wrench hits her knee a second time. Putting his hand on it, he squeezes. She grits her teeth and tears rise to her eyes.

“That,” he says while moving his finger on the bone, “is not yet dislocated. So imagine how much it’s gonna hurt once it is.”

He lets her go and takes a step back.

“How about you answered my questions, and then I’ll put that bone back where it belongs? Sounds like a good deal, huh, love?”

Despite the pain, she looks at him dead in the eyes and starts talking in Russian. He grasps a few insults – again – and regrets, once more, Curt’s absence. Anger rises through him and he tightens his grip on the wrench. He refrains himself from throwing it in her face.

“Well, looks like I’m going to have to finish up with that knee. What a shame, huh?”

He takes one step closer, but at that moment his watch beeps. He looks at it and sighs.

“Sorry, but it’s going to have to wait a few minutes. You wait for me, love?”

He passes past her and goes unlock the door in the back wall. Once outside, he locks it back and picks up the call.

“Who is it?”  
“Are you MI6 agent 351?” asks a feminine voice.  
“That’s me. Who are you?”  
“I’m CIA. I work with Cu… CIA agent 862.”

Owen sighs and takes a few steps away from the door. He’s inside another basement, communicating with the one where he locked Steve.

“Why are you calling? Curt is dead.”  
“Well, see, I’m not so sure about that.”

Somehow, the knot in Owen’s stomach goes up to his throat.

“I located his tracker,” continues the feminine voice, “and it’s still at the address you gave us. And, see, I designed those tracker to emit at a different frequency when the body they’re on doesn’t have a heartbeat anymore. This one is not. It’s still emitting at the living frequency.”

There’s a few seconds of silence before Owen asks:

“Are you sure about that?”  
“Not a hundred percent, but I’m pretty positive that the body this tracker is on is alive. I don’t know in what state, though. And I don’t even know if it’s Cu… our agent.”

Owen’s own heartbeat gets so loud that he’s sure, would he have worn the same type of tracker, he’d be classified as the most alive of living people.

“Oh, and also, considering the message we got, our boss is flying to Leningrad to meet with you. She’ll get in touch when she lands!”  
“Copy that,” Owen answers without really registering it.  
“Okay, bye, lovely talking to you!” concludes the high-pitched voice before hanging up.

Owen takes a few seconds to take in all that he’s learned in this short talk. Then he rushes back into the room.  
The woman is still in her chair, but has managed to move a few inches to the right. Putting a smile on his face, Owen moves in front of her, putting a hand on her shoulder, the other still holding the wrench.

“I’m so sorry, love, but I’m going to have to leave you here for a moment. Do you think you can stand it? Don’t worry, I’ll bee back very soon to finish this conversation. Oh, and just to help you reconsider your position–”

She cries louder than before when the wrench definitely breaks her knee articulation.

“Thinks about me while I’m gone, right?” he says while patting her cheek.

She’s breathing hard, her eyes are closed and tears strike her cheeks.  
Owen straightens up, walks toward the door, and drops the wrench in the bag before closing it and putting it on his shoulder. He flicks off the light and closes all the locks on the door behind him, pocketing the keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my friend Morgane for lending me her Steve* character (real name to be revealed later). We did exchange some of our characters during NaNoWrimo, so i know Cynthia is somewhere in her story (and Curt is somewhere in another friend's story ahah) (her character will also appear here later).
> 
> I had originally planned to put all of Leningrad in one chapter, but this was way too long to be seriously considered ahahahahahahah kill me. So yeah, here's a small cliffhanger before the second part (adds a bit of fun) (a bit of spice) (for whom you ask well i don't know)
> 
> Also remember how last time i said "The Fratellis' "Eyes wide, tongue tide" is perf for Curt and Owen"? Well their 5th record is out and it is... not good. I'm disappointed, guys, you've shown you're capable of so much better.  
> (However, Jack White's third record is also out and if you wanna talk to me about how INCREDIBLE it is, PLEASE DO.)


	4. Leningrad – September 1952 (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter has its fair share of blood.

Curt is brought back to life by a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Curt! Curt, are you there? Curt! Answer me!”

He groans without opening his eyes.

“Curt! Talk to me, Curt!”

He feels someone fidgeting with the rope around his wrists and a moan escape his lips.

“Did they break your fingers?!” says the voice behind him, a touch of anger tainting it.

Did they? The memories come back to Curt slowly and all at once, of brutal pain, insults, knocks and hits, breaking and burning.  
Yeah, they did break his fingers.  
His hands get free, but he doesn’t really have the strength to bring them closer to him.

“Curt, can you move? Can you feel your body? What did they break? Open your eyes and talk to me, love.”  
He feels a hand on his cheek, and the touch is soft and comforting. Without thinking, he leans into it.  
But then he remembers who the voice belongs to and freeze.

“I’m… fine…,” he manages to say through a dry mouth.  
“Okay, love,” says the voice with audible relief, “you’re far from fine, actually, but you’re alive.”

The hand leaves his face. He feels cold.

“Okay, Curt, I’m gonna free your legs first, and then your middle. Will you be able to stand up? Never mind, I’ll catch you if you ain’t.”

The cuffs quickly come free at his feet, and he feels of the verge of collapsing.

“Stand still, okay? I’m undoing the last one.”

He senses Owen’s hands moving around his belly, untying the last of the ropes binding him to the pillar. His legs give way under him, but instead of meeting the floor, he’s caught by Owen’s slender body. The arms slide behind his back and, soon, he’s seated against the pillar, and the body has left him.

“Curt, open your eyes. I know you can do it.”

Curt tries to take a deep breath, but coughs before going all the way. Immediately, Owen’s finger are on his ribcage.

“Okay, if you don’t want to open your eyes, at least tell me where you’re hurt. Did they break your ribs? What else did they touch, apart from your fingers? Talk to me, Curt. Do you want something to drink?”

Curt doesn’t answer, but pretty soon, he feels a flask on his lips. The smell is strong, and he recognizes the whisky.

“That will help with the pain,” says Owen as Curt opens his mouth, letting the bitter liquid in.

He then feels Owen’s hand on his forehead.

“You got no fever. That’s good. That’s a good sign. I think.”

Curt pushes the flask by closing his lips.

“You,” he starts before coughing again, his eyes still closed, “What… are you doing here?”  
“I came to get you when I got word you were still alive. I didn’t know how long that would last, so I let Steve tied to a chair and came to get you.”

Curt painfully opens his eyes. It takes him a moment, because of the blurriness and the darkness, to make out Owen’s silhouette, kneeling in front of him. His face is his usual smiling face, but his eyes seem worried.

“Oh good, you can open your eyes,” sighs Owen.  
“You got Steve and you’re here?” asks Curt.  
“Yeah. That’s a long story. Actually no, not that long, But first I need to know how badly you’re hurt. What did they do to you? What happened?”  
“Why… did you leave her?”  
“Don’t worry, she can’t move, I tied her up to her chair and broke her knee. Now tell me. What did they do?”

Curt closes his eyes again and the scene passes in his head.  
He was in. He hid. He heard them talk. He heard names. He heard places. He heard a lot of stuff. And then he moved, and something creaked. They stopped talking. They caught him. Tied him to the pillar. Asked him questions. Broke his fingers. Asked him questions. Hit his ribcage. Asked him questions. Burnt his calves. Asked him questions. Burnt his forearms. Asked him questions. Knocked him to the head. Asked him questions.  
He didn’t answer.

“It’s my… left hand,” he says. “I can still shoot.”  
“I swear to god, Curt, if you tell me you’re fine one more time, I’ll…”

Owen doesn’t finish his sentence and sighs. He starts to shuffle around.

“Can you walk?” he asks. “Well, first of all, can you stand? I’ll help you get back to the hotel. Your boss is on her way, I’ll tell her to meet you there.”

Curt’s eyes snap open.

“Cynthia’s coming?” he asks, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.  
“Yeah,” answers Owen while looking for something in his bag. “After you didn’t come back, I followed Steve, caught her, she told me you were dead, so I started interrogating her and I did what you said and called for reinforcements. And about 45 minutes ago, while I was with Steve, I got a call from a woman at CIA who told me that A) you were here and alive and B) your boss was on here way. Someone from my agency is coming too, by the way.”

Owen raises his head to look at him, and Curt tries to shake his arms and flex his fingers, but hisses as everything hurt.

“I… need to get up.”  
“Okay, man, I’ll help you. Just, here, I got something to eat, so take that, it’ll give you strength.”

Owen hands him something that looks like a protein bar, and Curt fights against himself to raise his right arm and catch it between his shaky fingers. Owen watches him carefully as he takes it to his mouth.

“Dude, you don’t look fine at all.”  
“I won’t be… if Cynthia sees me like that.”  
“What do you think she’ll do?” scoffs Owen. “Finish you off?”  
“She might.”

Chewing is hard, but Curt feels better by eating. Either that or the whisky is doing some good work and, by the time he’s done, he almost feels like he can stand up on his own.

“Let’s go,” he says.  
“Okay,” says Owen while standing up and holding out his hand to him. “I’ll drop you at the hotel and then…”  
“No. Take me to… Evylna.”  
“Who?”  
“Steve. Her… name is Evylna.”

Owen stares at him for a few second, his hand still extended.

“That is excellent news. But you need a doctor, and bandages, and meds. I’m not taking you to interrogate her.”

Curt catches his hand and tries to bend his legs. A moan almost escapes him. Taking a breath, he says:

“I heard things. I know things. I need to… interrogate her.”  
“And you can tell me what you know,” says Owen while changing his tactic and putting both arms behind Curt’s back to help him stand up. “And I will use it against her. You need to have these injuries taken care of.”

Curt feels wobbly on his legs, but after a few seconds he manages to quit Owen’s embrace and only leaning on one of his arms.

“Cynthia can’t find me in a hotel room,” he says.  
“You can barely —”  
“Take me with you,” he cuts him. “I can help. If… you don’t, I’ll follow you. By myself.”

Owen looks at him, and Curt holds his eyes. Eventually, Owen sighs.

“Fine. I’ll take you to Evylna. But if you collapse in my arms, I swear I’m calling a doctor straight away. And as soon as your boss is here, or we got a confession from Evylna, whichever comes first, you’ll get everything looked at.”

Curt nods.  
If they don’t get a confession before Cynthia lands, he’ll be dead anyway.  
They slowly start walking toward the door.

“You shouldn’t have come. You should have… kept interrogating her,” he says as they leave the house.

 

***

 

In the street, Owen steals a car and very soon they’re crossing street after street. He handed Curt the flask of whisky to help numb the pain, and, between two mouthfuls, Curt tells Owen what he learnt – names, places, events (some of them they’d already linked to them, some they hadn’t).

“And I’m pretty sure… the double agent theory is right.”  
“Did they talk about them?” asks Owen, glimpsing at him from the driver’s seat.  
“Not… directly. But they talked about their… contact. How they… had some new information.”  
“What new information?”  
“I don’t know. They… didn’t either. That’s why they were… meeting.”

Owen nods, and there’s a moment of silence before he looks toward Curt and asks:

“Was she… one of those who tortured you? Evylna?”

Curt takes another sip and nods. He can’t feel his left hand, but he’s not sure whether it’s because of the whisky or of the pain. He doesn’t look at Owen. He hasn’t since they got into the car. Sometimes he feels Owen looking at him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t want to see the pity in them. Sure, he’s not as fine as he says he is, but he can survive for a few more hours. At least until Cynthia gets there. After that… nothing will be up to him anymore.  
Why is she coming, anyway? Cynthia Houston rarely leaves the head offices anymore, and only for matters too big for normal agents to handle. Did he fuck up so bad? Will he be fired? He might. But maybe, maybe, if he can get a confession out of Evylna, that might play in his favor. Maybe he’ll be able to keep his job, despite his disastrous fuck up.

“Why didn’t they kill you?” asks Owen.  
“They probably thought… they did.”

His ribcage pains him every time he breathes. The burns on his arms and legs hurt every time the skin comes in contact with his clothes. He hasn’t dared showing them to Owen – he might not have let him come.  
He drinks some more whisky.  
Owen leaves him outside of the car in the back of a building while he goes abandon the vehicle a bit further. When the British agent comes back with his bag, Curt has managed to go down half of the stairs to the basement.

“Here, let me help”, says Owen while putting one of Curt’s arms over his shoulders.

Curt tenses, but lets him do – he doesn’t have much of a choice. Once downstairs, they cross a first room toward a door, and Owen lets him go to open it. Before unlocking it, he turns toward Curt and asks:

“You’re sure you’re up for it?”

Curt nods and empties the flask.

“Nothing she can do that she hasn’t… already done.”

Owen looks at him a bit more before unlocking everything and pushing the door. He tries to take Curt’s arm, as before, but Curt stops him. Owen sighs and comes in.

“Did you miss me, love?” he says in a joyful tone while turning on the lights.

Entering the room, Curt sees a basement much like the one they were just in. One chair, empty, is on the floor over the back wall, while the other, where a woman – Evylna – is tied, is also laying on the side on the floor.

“Oh my, what did you do to yourself?” says Owen while dropping his bag next to the door and handing the keys to Curt for him to lock the door.

Curt does that while Owen goes tipping the chair up, facing the opposite way.

“Come on, love, what exactly did you try to do? With that knee of yours, you couldn’t have gone very far.”

He looks at Curt over her shoulder and Curt understand the message: stay where he is, hidden. He nods and steadies himself against the wall.

“You could have gotten hurt,” says Owen while putting his hand on the woman’s knee. “Now that would have been terrible, wouldn’t it, love?”

Curt feels his already tight chest tightens even more every time Owen gives her this endearing term. Does he even have to be flirty with his victims? Curt feels the anger he’s tamed since Owen shook his shoulder come back to him. Why did he come to rescue him when he told him not to? Owen took a useless risk, and wasted time he could have used questioning Evylna. He just should have let him. Curt would either have gotten out of this later, or he would have died, but the mission wouldn’t have been put in peril like that. What if someone had followed them? What if one of his captor had still been with him? Owen could have died, or jeopardize everything. He shouldn’t have come back to him.  
His anger made him lose touch with the scene at hand, but he comes back to it when he hears Owen say her name:

“… right, Evylna?”

There’s a moment of silence before she coldly asks:

“Where did you hear that name?”  
“I have my own sources, love,” says Owen while patting her cheek.

She turns her head away from his touch.

“I won’t tell you anything more, you moron,” she says in Russian.

Curt leaves the supporting wall and starts marching toward them.

“She just called you a moron,” he says while still behind her. “You’re going to let that pass?”

She tries to look at him, but Owen catches her head in his hand and forces her to face him.

“Why that panicked look, darling? Did you hear a ghost?”

At that moment, Curt arrives next to Owen. His face and his hand are still bloody, and his complexion must be very pale, if he trusts the exhaustion he feels – he might as well be a ghost. He puts his arm on Owen’s bent back, as much to stabilize his posture as to prove they’re definitely working together.

“You know,” he says in his steadiest voice, “You torturing me, I can forgive – I understand. Insulting my friend, I get it too: he broke your knee and tied you to that chair. I’d be mad too, if I were you. But there are some things I can’t forgive.”

He pauses, both to emphasize his words and to catch his breath.

“Your sloppy torturing, for one. You should have realized the hand holding the gun was not the one I usually use. If you had, you wouldn’t have broken the wrong fingers,” he taunts her while agitating his right hand in front of her face. “And you should have made sure you killed me. Because now, I’m sure going to make you regret you didn’t.”

He lets go of Owen, takes a couple of steps back, and asks:

“Could you break her right thumb? I’d love to do it myself, but…”

Owen smiles at him and lets go of Evylna’s face.

“Anything for you, love,” he tells Curt while passing behind Evylna.

Curts feels his heart beating stronger than it should against his ribcage and convinces himself it’s because of his injuries. Owen’s eyes don’t leave his as bones crack and Evylna yells.  
He nods as a thank you and goes to pick the other chair and drags it closer. He doesn’t trust his body enough to keep standing. He sits on it with the backrest between his legs, mimicking Owen’s earlier pose without knowing it.

“Do you want me to do another one, or…?” asks Owen.

Curt shakes his head.

“I have a few questions to ask first.”

He stares at Evylna and, after a few seconds to assess her state of mind. She’s in pain, and she’s angry, but she’s still very focused, for someone in her state. Owen shouldn’t have left her for so long. It gave her time to collect herself. Now they will have to work harder to break her. Plus, considering her calm, that mustn’t be the first time she finds herself in a situation like this. Those damned commies and their fucked up education techniques. Everyone is tougher in this fucking countries.

“Who is your contact?” he finally asks.  
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”  
“Save time to everyone and pain to yourself. I was there. I heard your conversation.”

She curses in Russian.  
Still behind her, Owen gives an interrogative look at Curt, who barely shakes his head.

“So, who is your contact? We know you have someone in our ranks. Now it’s only a matter of time before we catch them.”  
“You’ll never find out,” she says in Russian.

Curt looks at Owen and nods.  
Another crack, another cry.

“You still have eight fingers left. You should answer, if you want to keep them. Who is it?”

She shakes her head in anger, lips pursed, tears striking her cheeks.  
He nods again. She yells again between her sobs.

“Maybe you don’t know their name. That’s okay. You could tell me where to find them, instead?”

She keeps shaking her head and crying. Owen makes the move to break another finger, but Curt stops him with a look.

“Apparently, she doesn’t care about her fingers.”  
“Maybe she will once she’s lost them all.”

Curt keeps staring at her. Her face has lost its pride and is now misshapen by the pain and the anger. No. Physical pain might break her, but only in the long haul. They must find another angle.  
Owen catches her by the shoulder and pushes her back against the chair.

“Who is Sofia?” asks Curt.

Her eyes widen.  
Curt feels relieved to be going somewhere. Staying focused asks more and more of him every minute.  
Owen turns around her chair and comes stand next to Curt, putting his hand on Curt’s shoulder and squeezing slightly. Curt finds comfort in the touch.

“Is Sofia your contact?” asks Owen.  
“Leave her out of this!” she cries.  
“You said you needed to go back home to Sofia. Is she your daughter? Your mother ? your sister? Your lover?” insists Curt.  
“She has nothing to do with this! Don’t touch her!”

Owen crouches.

“We won’t. If you answer our questions.”  
“And if you don’t, we will find her, and we will hurt her,” Curt adds.  
“While you watch,” concludes Owen in a whisper.  
“Don’t touch her!” she sobs.

Owen looks up to Curt and smiles, his hand still on his shoulder.

“Do you think she cares about Sofia’s fingers?”  
“I’ll kill you if you touch her!” she cries.  
“She definitely does,” says Curt with the best thing resembling a smile he can show.

 

***

 

Curt successfully holds his shit together for the rest of the interrogation but, once they’ve learned all they could about the infamous contact – a woman who calls herself Jesus and refuses to be seen –, Owen knocks Evylna out and Curt collapses. Owen almost has to drag him to the car, then to their hotel room. When they finally get there, it’s almost morning and the only thing Curt wants is to properly pass out on his bed.  
Sadly, Owen doesn’t see it that way.

“Come on, love,” he says while sitting him on his bed. “Take off your clothes.”

Curt snaps out of his haze.

“What?”  
“We gotta do something for your injuries, and I’m afraid I can’t assess anything with all of your clothes on,” smiles Owen.

Curt almost tells him that it’s easy: everything hurts. But he’s still got enough of his mind to know the soundness of what Owen’s saying. In a perfect world, he should have been looked at hours ago.  
But, in a perfect world, he also wouldn’t have been hurt.  
He sighs and starts taking off his jacket with the help of his right hand, left arm first. His shoulder hurts, but he doesn’t know if it’s a reminiscence of his past injury or a new one.

While he struggles to get it past his broken and swollen fingers, Owen looks around in his bag. “My medical abilities are about as good as my Russian, but I should be able to patch you up until you see a real doctor. I’m sure I’ve a fist aid kit in it somewhere.”  
“There’s one in my bag,” groans Curt.

He knows he shouldn’t let someone else look inside his stuff, but right now he’s to tired to care.

“Wow, you’re very neat, man,” exclaims Owen when opening his bag.  
Of course he is. That’s how a spy should be.  
Owen finds the first aid kit and grabs a towel before putting it under the sink.  
With a lot of contortion and a bit of pain, Curt manages to take off his jacket and shirt. He knows he should also remove his pants to be able to look at his burned calves, but he already feels too vulnerable as it is. But, again, he knows he needs to do it, so he struggles out of them to.

“Jesus, Curt!” exclaims Owen when he turns around and sees him. “They weren’t joking with you. Why didn’t you say anything all night?”  
“We had more pressing matters at hand.”  
“Fuck, Curt, I don’t even know where to start,” says Owen without seeming to having heard him.  
“Well, neither did they, and they chose the fingers,” says Curt while holding out his hand.

Owen laughs quietly and drags the one chair across from Curt. Putting the first aid kit open on the bed, he takes Curt hand between cautious fingers and starts gently rubbing them with the wet towel.

“It’s just to clean them up, to see what they really look like without the blood.”

Curt hisses. Everything in that area seems so sensitive.

“Sorry,” says Owen while casting him a quick glance.  
“Not your fault,” mumbles Curt.  
Owen smiles. “They did a pretty good job on you. Actually, no, they did a bad job, and not even a clean one, but you get what I mean.”

Curt doesn’t answer. Though it hurts, Owen’s touch is gentle and careful. It’s somehow amazing, at that moment, to think that not even two hours ago he was breaking fingers instead of mending them.

“I’m gonna put some cream on those and a bandage. Not much more I can do without fearing to do more wrong than right. I’m sorry.”

Curt shrugs – tries to.  
Gently, Owen rubs cream on his hand. Curt stares without thinking at their intertwined fingers and realizes how close they both are. If he focuses, he can feel Owen’s breath on his skin.  
He shouldn’t focus.

“Okay, what next?” asks Owen once the fingers are all wrapped up. “How about your arms?”

Curt holds them out.

“Okay,” sighs Owen. “Okay. You know the only thing I know how to do is clean wounds up, put some cream, stitch them if need be and put a bandage, right?”

He looks at the towel, gets up and go rinse it in the sink before coming back.

“I’m sorry but this is probably gonna hurt, love,” he says while sitting back.  
“Not a big difference with right now, then.”

Again, Owen laughs while gently patting his forearm with the towel. Curt moans.

“Sorry. How did they do that to you?”  
“They had an oil lamp.”

Owen winces.

“That’s why they’re so dirty.”

With all of his messiness, fast-talking and cold-blood torture action, Curt would never have pegged Owen as gentle. But he is. He delicately holds his arm in one hand, trying not to touch the marks, while softly patting the burns with the towel. It hurts because it’s sensitive, not because Owen is acting harshly.  
For once, he’s working in silence, the constant talking of earlier having subsided. He too must be tired, after all.  
When the wounds are clean, Owen puts some cream on his arms, and Curt watches the slender fingers on his skin. Somehow, the touch soothes him – not to the point that he feels good, but at least he doesn’t feel so tense or in pain anymore.

“Okay, what else?” asks Owen once he’s done with the bandages.

His hands start to approach Curt’s ribcage, but Curt stops them by saying quickly:

“Only my legs and my ribcage. And I doubt anything can be done for the ribcage. And I can take care of my legs.”

Elbows on his knees, Owen looks at him and says sternly: “Curt, you’ve only got one working hand. I’m not gonna let you patch yourself like that, that would be unprofessional of me.”  
He then smiles a light version of his crooked smile, contrasting with his tone, and Curt nods. Using his one good hand to help him, he withdraws farther on the bed, extending his legs.  
While Owen repeats the process, Curt looks at him without really realizing. The hair, too long but somehow suiting him; the dark circles under his eyes; the focused look on his face; the slight smile he can still see under all that; and his hands, precise, careful, tender. There’s also the concern in his eyes when he looks at him, and joy in his voice when he talks to him.  
But all that is probably just Owen being a good professional and a decent person – or a good actor. Curt’s probably thinking all that because at that point, he’s almost naked, and very tired, in pain, and vulnerable. Owen is only helping a fellow spy.

“You look like you’ve done that often,” says Curt to divert his thoughts.

Owen laughs while applying a bandage to his right leg.

“I’ve had my fair share of injuries too. And this is not the first time I work with someone that reckless.”  
“I’m not reckless,” Curt protests.

Owen raises his head and looks at him.

“You run into the face of danger without caring about the consequences. Tell me how else you’d define that?”  
“I’m doing my job.”  
“There’s doing your job and doing your job, love” sighs Owen. “I’m doing my job too and you don’t see me covered in burns.”  
“I guess you care about not dying, then,” says Curt before he can stop himself.

Owen abruptly stops what he’s doing to look at him.  
Oh shit.

“I’m just tired,” sighs Curt. “It’s been a long day.”

Owen stares at him a bit longer before saying.

“Okay.”  
When he moves to bandaging his other leg, he adds: “You’re not gonna die on me, love, are you?”

Curt can’t help but smile.

“I’ll try not to.”

Owen smiles too, without looking at him.

When he’s done with both legs, he says: “Now there’s only your head left.”

His head? Curt takes his hand to it and remembers. Right. He was knocked on the head too. With all the general pain, he’d taken the throbbing as being a consequence of everything else.

“Come closer,” invites Owen with a sign of the hand.

Curt resumes his initial position .

“I think it’s mostly dry blood,” says Owen while lowering Curt’s head with his hands. “Once it’s clean, you may have a bump, nut nothing too bad, I think.”  
“I thought your medical competences were pretty bad.”

He head lowered, Curt has a good view on Owen’s collarbones. He closes his eyes.

Owen laughs. “They are. But I’ve been knocked on the head more than once.”  
Curt laughs too. “I’m not surprised.”  
“That I’ve been knocked on the head?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’m too annoying, that’s what you mean?”  
“You said that. I didn’t.”

Curt finds it easier to talk to Owen when he doesn’t see him. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t have to deal with that way. Like on his arms and legs, Owen’t touch is gentle on his head. He feels his fingers sliding between his hair and, even with the occasional pain when he reaches the place where he was hit, Curt feels ready to lose himself in the touch.  
He flexes the fingers of his left hand to feel something else.

“That’s it, it’s just a bump. The cut’s not deep. You will probably survive.”  
“Good to know.”  
“Well, you’re good to go, love. Or as good as I can make you.”

Owen starts so slide his hand on the side of Curt’s head to withdraw it, but without really thinking, Curt catches his wrist between his fingers as he raises his head. They stay still for a few seconds, a few inches from each other’s face, Curt’s thumb absentmindedly caressing Owen’s wrist.

“Thank you,” he finally says before letting go of his arm and turning his head, trying to scratch the fresh cut with his broken fingers before wincing when he realizes what he’s done.  
“You’re welcome,” says Owen a few seconds later.

Then there’s the rattling of his chair on the floor, and he starts moving on his side of the room.

“We should get to sleep. It’s already too late, and our bosses will probably arrive very early in the morning. We might as well get all the rest we can.”

Curt nods, though he’s not sure if Owen sees him – he doesn’t want to look at him.  
Now that Owen’s hands are not on his body anymore, the soothing feeling is gone, as well as, it seems, the heat and the comfort. The pain is back, like the knot in his stomach. He doesn’t know why he’s done that. He shouldn’t have. That was because he’s tired. And hurt. He didn’t really realize what he was doing. Didn’t he? Maybe Owen didn’t realize it. Maybe he’s too tired as well.  
And in a few hours, he’ll be facing Cynthia Houston. The knot grows bigger. Maybe Owen shouldn’t have taken so much time to tend his injuries, considering what Cynthia might do to him when she sees him.  
And, though he still thinks that when he slips under his cover as Owen turns off the lights, he also thinks it was worth it – and not just because the pain isn’t as strong.

 

***

 

When Owen is waken up a few hours later by a hand on his shoulder, he feels like he just fell asleep.

“Get up” whispers Curt. “I got a call from Cynthia. They’re almost here.”

Then he’s out of the room, leaving Owen emerge alone.  
Owen sits in his bed and rubs his eyes. He’s going to need some good, strong coffee if he wants to last the day. Last night was very testing, and he didn’t get enough sleep to fully digest it. With all the force he can manage, he gets out of bed and tumbles to the sink, where he rinses his face in cold water. He observes his face in the tainted mirror. He does look exhausted. In a attempt to look more awake, he slicks his hair back with water.  
Curt gets back in the room when he's getting dressed, and a few minutes later they're locking the room behind them.  
Again, Owen's driving, and Curt is silent beside him except for the few indications he gives him.  
Truth be told, he looks exhausted too – no wonder, given the state he's in. Like the night before, he doesn't complain or lets see any hint of his pain. If Owen hadn't seen him last night, and if there wasn't a bump on his head and the bandage on his fingers, he could almost think everything's normal and Curt's just very quiet.  
Curt's always been the quiet type – in striking contrast with him and his tendency to verbally fill the space –, but today he seems even gloomier. Is it because of the pain ? Of his boss, whom he seems deeply scared of? Or because he regrets showing vulnerability the night before? Knowing him like he does – which means, not much – it's probably a mix of the three.

They eventually reach a warehouse in the outskirts of town. The place seems to have been abandoned for years – since the war, probably – and not a soul is in sight.  
They abandon the stolen car behind between walls half down to hide it, and Curt guides him to a door in the back of the building – the kind you don't see when you don't look for it. This place must be the CIA hideout in Leningrad – the equivalent of the basement they were in last night, but on the American side. All secret services agencies have one in each important city of the globe, and use it for hiding, meeting, and all kind of activities they don't want the government or the general public to know about – and breaking fingers is just one of them.  
Inside, he follows Curt into a maze of corridors, piled up boxes, and dusty construction item. Though Curt doesn't hesitate to choose his path, he seems to go in slower than he could – because of his injuries or because of what's waiting for him?  
They finally reach a wider space, with a high ceiling – probably the actual warehouse part of the warehouse –, where Owen sees his boss, Bill, a bulky middle-aged English man, talking with a woman probably no taller than five feet, wearing a rigid haircut and a dark suit with a skirt. Though she looks like a stern clerk at a bank, Owen senses the halo of power and anger around her. Somehow, he starts to understand why Curt might fear her: next to her, his boss, not a very tender and loving man, seems like the kind of uncle who tells jokes at family dinners.

When she spots them, the CIA boss – Cynthia – immediately points at Curt with her index before signaling him to approach. She's silent, unlike the last time Owen had the pleasure to be in contact with her, but somehow at only makes her more menacing.  
With a sigh Owen could have missed if he hadn't been looking so closely for Curt's reaction, Curt starts walking toward her, hands in his pockets.  
Owen has never seen him look so powerless – and he's seen him tied to a pillar and unable to move.  
His own boss starts walking toward him and greets him with a nod and a handshake and, while he gives him a summary of the situation, Owen keeps and eye on Curt, who doesn't seem to be talking at all, only receiving his boss' very angry verbal diarrhea. He seems to get smaller and gloomier by the minute.  
When they've both exchanged their point of view of the situation with their bosses, Cynthia approaches them, followed by a sloppy Curt.

"So you're Owen," she says without any type of greeting.  
"Agent Carvour. Pleasure to meet you, ma'm," he smiles while extending his hand.  
She doesn't take it and instead waves it away, saying "Please quit the sweet talk bullshit, if I had wanted to be wooed this is the last place I'd have come to. Where is the woman?"  
"She's locked up, don't worry, there's no chance she's escaping us."  
"I didn't ask about her chances of escape, I asked where she was."  
"She's at our safe house, Cynthia," says Bill. "Do you doubt us so much that you need to know the address?"  
"I would be a fucking idiot if I didn't doubt you."  
"Then understand why I doubt you too."

She whips out a cigarette and waves his sentence away with the smoke.

"The truth is, the four of us here are probably the only ones who can't be suspected of being this Jesus agent. Fuck, talk about a god syndrome, huh? Anyway, I know it isn't me, I hope it isn't you, Bill, Curt's too dumb for that kind of shit and you, Owen, were the one who discovered that whole fucking plot, and while I don't think it makes you trustworthy, Bill seems to believe so. So, here's the fucking deal: we are the ones who need to find out who she is. I'm ready to interview your target myself, if it can give us more information than the pitiful amount you assholes got. So where is she?"  
"She's an American woman," Curt blurts out.  
"Oh so now she's not a fucking Russian anymore? Get your story together, you idiot."  
"No. Jesus. She's an American woman. I'm not one hundred percent sure," he starts to babble, "but... that's what I understood."

He lowers his gaze when Owen tries to meet it. When did he pick that up? Because Evylna sure didn't talk about that during the interrogation last night. And why didn't he share it with him? Did he want to take the glory for himself? His behavior doesn't show it that way.

"Oh and you're only mentioning it now, you fucking dumb-dumb? And are you sure or is it only some more of your bullshit?"  
"I'm not entirely sure, but... When she talked about Jesus in Russian, she used female adjectives. And when she said Jesus spoke English, she looked at me. Like, Jesus' English is the same as mine. And Ow– agent Carvour has an English accent."  
"Oh, and didn't you fucking consider that this commies scumbag could be lying to you, or that you might be over interpreting the way her eyes move?"  
"That's why I said I wasn't sure," he mumbles.

He spoke so low and without a specific target, that Owen's not sure anyone else heard him – not with Cynthia still yelling next to him.

"So if you're not going to contribute anything new to the conversation, shut the fuck up! We need facts, not stupid suppositions."

Curt keeps his eyes low and doesn't answer.  
Owen is astounded by his lack of reaction. The Curt he sees in front of him is not the man he got to know over their last encounters; he doesn't recognized the focused agent, the one who runs into fire, who assesses a scene in a glimpse, who takes risks, who is both reckless and calculated. Next to his boss, Curt has become transparent.

“Now you,” says Cynthia while pointing at Owen, “do you have anything of any relevance to share that you haven’t yet? Cause now would be the fucking time.”  
“Actually, Curt probably knows more than me: he was the one who slipped into their little meeting and heard the conversation.”  
Curt looks at him interrogatively, and Cynthia turns toward Curt, bathing him in her cigarette’s smoke: “Oh, and was that before or after they knocked you on the head?”  
“You know, Cynthia, I think it’s worth checking if one of your agents – of our agents – fits Curt’s description and may have been on the scene of these crimes over the past few years.”  
“First of all, that would be a total waste of money. Secondly: don’t you think we’d already know about that if it was that easy? And thirdly: I came here because I was promised a double agent, and I haven’t fucking seen one yet, so you better have something to give me or I’m going to be very, very angry to have made this trip for nothing.”  
"Well, seems like that Evylna woman told us all she knows," says Owen before Cynthia does some more yelling. "And her friends probably are on the run now that they've seen Curt and she’s gone missing."  
"Oh, great, good job fucking it up, Curt. Not only did you manage almost getting yourself killed, but you also sent our potential witnesses on the run."  
"She's the boss. Evylna. She was the one who knew the most. The others wouldn't have been of any help," tries to retort Curt.  
"Well it's easy to say that when you can't get a hand on them, you fucking retard."  
"We've still got Evylna," tries to pacify Bill. "We can ask her some more question and see if she remembers more things."  
"Or," says Owen in an attemp to see Curt's face stop getting darker by the minute, "we can follow the lead she gave us."  
"The Central America thing?" asks Bill.  
"What the fuck is this Central America story?" asks Cynthia. "Curt, how come I never fucking heard about Central America from your mouth?"  
"I didn't—"  
"You didn't what, think it was useful? Owen, tell me about it, since you actually seem to be the kind of man who reports important intel to your superiors."

Owen looks at Curt's balled fist – the one that isn't hurt, because the left is still hidden inside the pocket of his jacket – before answering:

"Well, Evylna told us that she was supposed to meet with Jesus tomorrow – today – and that Jesus was scheduled to fly to Central America straight after that, whether Evylna showed up or not."  
"We could use Evylna as bait to go to the meeting" suggests Bill.  
"Or we could not fucking do that, considering the woman has a broken knee and some fingers missing, thanks to Curt. If Jesus is as smart as a snail, she'll notice something's not fucking right. So now we just got to figure where the fuck in Central America is that shit bag going, and we’re lucky the place's not that big. Oh, wait: it fucking is."  
"Panama," blurts Curt, barely meeting Owen's gaze.  
"Pana-fucking-what?"  
"She said Jesus was going to Panama. In Russian. But she couldn't find the English name so she just pointed the area."  
Cynthia points at his nose with her index and rage on her face while hissing between her teeth: "I swear to god, if you fucking hide another fucking information from me ever again, you can consider yourself as good as dead."

Owen barely contains his surprise. Bill has straightened his path a few times, told him to behave and reprimanded him when he occasionally messed up, but he has never, ever, threatened him of anything worse than some weeks away from the field, and definitely not of death.

"You didn't let me finish," mumbles Curt without even so much as blinking.  
"What did you just say to me?" she growls. "Don't you fucking dare talk back to me ever again."

There's an awkward silence following that declaration, and Owen breaks it in a joyful tone, saying:

"So are we going to Panama or what?"

 

***

 

After some more yelling on Cynthia's side, some more not saying anything on Curt, and some more attempts to make the atmosphere less heavy on Owen's, the bosses did finally agree on something: while Bill is going to take a look at Evylna and transfer her to the MI6 headquarters in England, Curt will go see a doctor – mostly because of Owen's insistence for him to do so and despite many remarks on his incompetence from Cynthia –, leaving Owen alone with the CIA boss. He now has to take her back to her plane before meeting Curt at the hotel and taking their own flight to Central America, following the footsteps – or, in this case, being one step ahead – of Jesus.  
Once they find themselves alone in the stolen car, the silence sounds even deadlier than her earlier screams. Owen's not sure if he should try to break it, but his big mouth decides for him.

"You know, Cynthia–"  
"It's Ms Houston to you, boy."  
"–Ms Houston. I think you don't give Curt enough credit."  
"I what now?"  
"Curt. I think you're a little harsh on him."  
"Excuse me, but are you the fucking head of the CIA? Oh, right, you're not, cause I am. So, for now, you should consider yourself lucky that A) I don't know you and B) you don't work for me, but if you ever talk to me like that again, don't think I can't have an influence on your career, Owen."  
"It's agent Carvour to you, ma'm."

The instant he says that, he knows he shouldn't have.  
She turns toward him on the passenger seat.

"Listen, you fucking smartass. You probably think you're all it, with you British accent and your smooth manners, but let me tell you something: one word from me, one, and you can say goodbye to your reputation, your career and your life. Now drive faster, I've already lost enough time for nothing as it is."

They keep going for a few minutes in silence – she actually had him scared, and he understands Curt better now that he knows he has to deal with that all the time.  
But still, he can't keep himself from saying, just minutes before reaching her plane:

"You know, you may not think much of Curt, but I'm pretty sure you mean a lot to him."  
"What, so not only did he give you his name, he also thought you were his fucking therapist?"  
"Curt didn't tell me anything he didn't have to, but I'm pretty sure he risked death for you more than a couple of times."

She actually stays silent for a few seconds before saying:

"You know, I’ve heard a lot of fucking stupid bullshit in my life, but that's probably the fuckingest stupidest bullshitest thing I've ever heard."  
"Yeah, me too," sighs Owen.  
"So why on earth would you actually say that to me?"  
"Because I think that's true. From the few times I've seen him on the field, he's always taken inconsiderate risks, not for the glory or the thrill of it, but because he saw that as the best option for you to be proud of him. Jesus, he even chose to save me and get shot because he thought you'll be slightly less mad at him!"  
"Curt gets in dangerous positions because he can't assess the situation right and make the best choices. I've trained him, I've known him for longer than you, and I know his weaknesses. Don't you fucking dare telling me I don't fucking know my own agents."  
"You're right. He doesn't always make the best choices, but he always manages to save the day. You may have known him longer, but I've seen him the most recently. He's reckless, sometimes a bit borderline, but he's good. The thing is, Ms Houston, if at some point you don't acknowledge that, he's gonna get more reckless and borderline. So maybe – and I know I'm not director of the CIA or whatever – you should try to, I don't know, not threaten to kill him every time he doesn't act exactly like you would have wanted him to."  
"Okay, Owen. You're standing up to me, and very few dare to do that, so I’ll give you credit for that, even if you're wrong. Curt doesn't need to be cuddled. He's stronger than you think.  
"No" whispers Owen. "He's stronger than you think."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, breaking fingers, fixing injuries, meeting each other's boss, the usual third date stuff.
> 
> Thanks again to my friend Morgane for letting me borrow her character Evylna (and being very, hm, unkind, to her) !
> 
> Happy easter everyone, and *throws chocolate at you* eat chocolate !


	5. Panama – September 1952

Curt barely sleeps in the plane, and when he does, it's more tiring than anything else. He’s even angrier because, next to him, Owen seems to be in blissful sleep.  
Well, good to know that at least one of them got his boss' approval for his work.  
He knows he shouldn't but, when they land, he takes another painkiller from the bottle the doctor gave him. It taints his senses, but he's so fucking tired anyway this won't probably change much anyway.  
Surprisingly, Owen has been quite silent since they left their bosses. Curt would have expected non stop comments about Cynthia and how fucking useless he was in front of her, but Owen hasn't said a single word about it. Maybe she did chew him up too when he took her to her plane – Curt feels nauseous at that idea. Owen may not be the tidiest spy and the most discreet man, but he's good. He wouldn't deserve her hatred.  
Or maybe Owen finally saw him for who he really is and can't stand being here with him.

"You got the address?" asks Owen.  
"Yeah," Curt sighs. "But first, I gotta meet someone.”

Owen raises his eyebrows.

"You know someone here? Who?"  
"An old friend," he answers before putting his bag on his shoulder.

 

***

 

Curt briefly considers taking a nap before going to meet his contact, but they are one step ahead of Jesus and should make the most of it. If he had been able to sleep, he would have done so on the plane anyway.  
He's a bit nervous at the idea of his next meeting, and he doesn't know what makes him worry the most: the one he's about to meet, or the fact that Owen will be listening.  
Owen has tried to pry some info from him on his contact and why he didn't talk about them sooner, but Curt locked himself in his usual silence: the less Owen knows, the better.  
They drive to the outskirts of the capital city, in a neighborhood quite fancy for the country. In America, those would be considered terrible suburbs, but here, it's one of the nicest they've seen. Again, Owen is at the wheel, since Curt's hand is still wearing bandages.

"Park here," he says, "and don't move if I don't say so."  
"You’re sure it's safe?" asks Owen with concern.  
"Yes," sighs Curt before closing the door of the car. “He can't hurt me anymore than I already am."

And then he abandons Owen behind him, crossing a couple streets in a nervous state.  
When he reaches the good house – he thinks –, he stays a few seconds in front of the door before knocking.  
When he finally does, there’s a few seconds before it opens.  
The man behind seems taller and tanner than he remembers, but his face is still familiar. He frowns.

“Curt?”  
Curt manages to get half a smile out, despite the knot in his stomach. “Hi, Ian.”  
“What are you doing here? Are you…?”  
“Nobody knows I’m here.”

Except Owen, but Owen doesn’t know Ian, so he doesn’t count.  
Ian looks around suspiciously in the street before opening the door wider.

“Come in,” he sighs.

Once the door is closed, Ian leads him along a corridor.

“It’s not that I’m not glad to see you,” he says in that English accent he never quite lost. “It’s just… you know.”  
“I’m not here for that. You got nothing to fear.”  
“Is that guy a criminal or what?” asks Owen in his ear.  
“Why, then?” asks Ian with a glance over his shoulder. “And how did you find me?”

Curt shrugs.

“We have our ways.”  
“We? I thought you were alone.”  
“I mean, in general. As agents. You know how it is.”

He tries to smile, and Ian stares a him for a few seconds in front of an open door. He eventually smiles back.

“Yeah. I do. Come and sit. You want some coffee?”  
“Okay.”  
“What are you doing? Accepting food and beverage from a source? That’s insane!” says Owen.

While Ian disappears through another door, Curt pushes some children’s books and toys over the dinner table to make some room. Around him, the living room is messy, with clothes, other toys and other books scattered across every piece of furniture. He’d never been to Ian’s place before, but that’s not how he imagined it. Ian always seemed so proper – maybe something to do with his accent, or the way he wore his suits. But that might just be another secret he hid.  
“Your kids are at school?” asks Curt loudly.

“Yeah,” answers Ian from the kitchen. “They’re doing good. They like it here.”  
“Good.”

Despite what he’s been told, Curt stays standing.

“Are you going to ask him about Jesus or what? Is Jesus one of the kids?” asks Owen sarcastically.

Curt resists the urge to roll his eyes. He wishes he could tell him to shut up.

“Sit,” says Ian again as he comes back with a tray supporting two cups and a pot of sugar. “I’m sorry, I know you like cream in it, but I don’t have any.”

Curt shakes his head.

“That’s fine.”  
“So what brings you here? Because I guess it’s not the wish to talk about the good old times,” smiles Ian as he passes him his cup.  
“I’m looking for someone.”

Ian raises his eyebrows.

“You know I got out of that kind of stuff.”  
“I know you can never really get out.”

Ian hold his eyes as if trying to evaluate him, then smiles as if to apologize.

“Tell me more, and I’ll see what I can do.”  
“It’s about a double agent. Probably a woman. Probably American. Calls herself Jesus.”  
“And what makes you think Jesus is in Panama?”

Curt shrugs while adding sugar to his coffee.

“I have my sources. So you know her?”

Ian shakes his head.

“No. But I’ve heard that name. Quite often linked to some shaggy dealings. You’re sure you want to get involved in that?”

Again, Curt shrugs.

“It’s my job.”  
“It’s not just your job. It’s your life, too.”

Curt can’t stop a smile from reaching his lips.

“We’ve already had that conversation.”  
“Yeah. But it was a long time ago. Your position could have changed.”  
“Did yours?”

Ian half smiles.

“I have kids. It’s much more about their lives than about mine.”

Curt’s eyes wander on the dolls, trains, and soldiers spread around them.

“So what does that Jesus deal with?”

Ian sighs.

“Anything she can find, apparently. Bombs, attacks, assassination. But not the small stuffs. I’ve heard she had a hand in the last terrorist attack in America. Didn’t know she was from the CIA, though. I thought she was just a rogue.”  
“Do you know where I can find her?”  
“Again, I advise against that.”  
“We don’t need his advices. Stop chit-chatting and get real info out of him,” presses Owen.  
“But you know.”  
“I didn’t say that.”

Curt tilts his head to the side and smiles.

“Come on, Ian. If you don’t tell me, I’ll go digging myself.”

He feels that, since he got here, they’ve just been beating around the bush – and not only about Jesus. There has always been a lot of things left unsaid between them – even when they did actually talk. None of them have ever been good at communicating, and at a point, it did seem better not to say anything.

“I know,” Ian sighs. He then looks at his forehead and nods. “What happened to your head?”  
“I fell,” answer Curt without touching his bump.  
“Yeah. You always did fall a lot.”

Of course Ian doesn’t believe his story.

“I’m clumsy that way.”  
“Cynthia is still here?”  
“I’m not supposed to answer that question.”  
“That guy used to be CIA, that’s it?” asks Owen.  
“I’ll take that as a yes. She didn’t change, huh?”

Curt shrugs. He doesn’t really want to talk about Cynthia – not when he was starting to feel more comfortable.

“Either that guy was CIA or he’s really creepy,” says Owen.  
“You know, you were always better than what she thought. At your job, I mean. And in general, too.”  
“I didn’t come here for a pep talk.”  
“Didn’t you?” asks Ian while putting his cup down.

Truth be told, maybe he did. Maybe he came here as much for the information as for the company.  
Maybe he shouldn’t have.

“I came because I needed your help. With this case.”  
“Yeah, and he better help,” sighs Owen. “Because so far, he has been quite useless.”  
“I’m glad you came.”

With that, Ian puts his hand on Curt’s. And Curt feels all his tiredness, all his pain and all his anger melt away.  
He probably did come for the company.

“What’s happening?” asks Owen when the silence lingers.

Curt pushes a button on his watch and disconnects his tracker and his coms.

 

***

 

“Where the fuck have you been? It’s been more than an hour,” asks a very angry Owen when Curt gets into the car.

Curt runs a hand through his hair to flatten them.

“I’ve got an address. We need to go back to the city center.”  
“No no no,” says Owen while turning toward him. “First you explain what happened, then I’ll decide if the info you got is worth it.”  
“Yeah, cause that’s how it worked last time,” mumbles Curt, his bad mood returning to him way quicker than he got rid of it.  
“What did you just say?”  
He sighs. “Never mind. Let’s just get out of there. It’s not careful to stay.”  
“Yeah, and you know what wasn’t careful?” says Owen without making any sign of igniting the engine. “You turning off everything when you were in there.”  
“I knew what I was doing, okay?” he says, getting tense.

Truth be told, he didn’t. But Owen doesn’t need to know that.

“Seriously, Curt, what got into you? You’ve always been so by-the-book. What happened here?”  
“Just drive away, okay? We can’t stay here.”  
“Fine,” sighs Owen. “But I want to know everything that happened.”

You won’t, he thinks as Owen turns on the engine and gets into the street.  
They drive in angry silence for a few minutes, before Owen asks:

“So who was that guy?”

Curt thinks carefully of the formulation.

“He used to be CIA. He was a trainer. But he had to leave.”  
“Why? Did he do something wrong?”  
“He had kids.”  
“That’s not an excuse. I know some people who have kids at MI6. He did sound like he did something bad and was not wanted there anymore.”  
“I don’t know the whole story. I just know he left.”

Lies. Of course he knows the whole story. He was part of it – not that anyone knew that, thanks to Ian.

“Yeah, that seems shady to me.”  
“Listen, I trust him, okay?”  
“Well, I don’t. What if he’s turned his coat since he’s been fired?”  
“Well, do you have any better option? If you don’t want to come, I’ll go alone.”  
“Fuck, Curt! I was that close to coming after you. You don’t think I’m gonna leave you alone after a shady dude gave you a hint?”  
“If you don’t think that’s legit, you should go follow your own leads. Time is running out.”

Owen stops at a crossroad and turns to him.

“Curt. If that lady is where he says she is, and if she’s half as dangerous as he says, I’m not leaving you alone.”

Curt stares back. Eventually, he shrugs.

 

***

 

Without looking, Curt tells Owen everything Ian told him about Jesus. How she’s been a growing underground power, how no one has never seen her, how she’s probably been given credit for the work of others, how she changes her headquarter all the time but it seems to be in Panama City at the moment, how her goal seems to be mayhem, without distinction of politics or sides.

“So you mean she’s not working for the Russians?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“But that’s what you just said.”  
“That’s what Ian said. I don’t know what’s truth and what’s only rumors.”  
“Guess we’ll have to figure all that out, then,” sighs Owen.

Curt doesn’t answer.  
On the one hand, he’s relieved that Owen is sticking with him – with all of his injuries, he’s not at his best –, but on the other, he can’t help but feel really uncomfortable with him. After what happened in Russia and his conversation with Ian, he doesn’t know where they stand. Owen did seem really mad at him. Was it because of what he heard? They didn’t let anything slip, right?  
Eventually, they reach the address Ian gave him. It’s not Jesus’ address, of course, but he said they could find someone who knew here there.  
Before they leave the car, Curt pushes a few buttons on his watch to turn his tracker back on. Owen watches him with disbelief.

“You seriously hadn’t done that before?”

Curt shrugs.  
There’s no point in answering that he didn’t want the CIA to know he spent that much time with Ian. It wouldn’t have been good for any of them.  
Owen shakes his head.

“How’s your Spanish?” he asks, changing the subject.  
“ _No es el mejor_ ,” he answers in an accent still very close to American. “Yours?”  
“ _El mismo_ ,” sighs Owen.  
“Your accent could use some work, but it’s better than mine. You do the talking.”

And with that, Curt leaves the car and starts walking.  
Owen joins him a few seconds later, and Curt sees him slow his pace to match him. He winces internally. His injuries hurt him slightly less, but they still make him slow in everything – walking, moving, thinking. He wishes he hadn’t taken that painkiller at the airport. His pain would still be sharp, but so would his mind.  
Truth be told, Owen’s accent isn’t any better than his: he just feels too tired to think in any other language than his own.  
After a look at him and a nod from Curt, Owen knocks at the door of a beaten-down one-story house. Planks of wood are missing from the floor of the porch, and net on the front door is torn apart. For a few long seconds, there’s no noise from the inside, then loud steps crack the floorboards and the door suspiciously opens.

“What do you want?” asks the man in Spanish.

He’s standing in the shadow, and all they have on him is his voice.

“I don’t think you’d like to discuss that here,” answers Owen with a flashing smile.

There’s a moment of hesitation, then the man opens the door and pushes the screen door. With a sign of his hand, he invites them in.  
Curt and Owen gladly follow the small and fat man inside a corridor that looks in no better shape than the outside of the house. He takes them to something that looks like a living room, with a torn couch and a coffee table covered in beer bottles. A transistor stands on a buffet, blasting some show in fast-talking Spanish.  
The man, probably in his thirties, sits on the couch without inviting them to do so.

“So what do you want?” he asks in his strong central-American accent.  
“We were told you were the man to come to if we wanted guns,’ says Owen.  
“Who told you that?”  
“Someone.”

The man nods.

“It’s always someone.” He takes a beer and drinks half of it. “So what do you need? If it’s too specific, it can take a few days.” He drinks the other half. “You’re American, right?”  
“Actually,” says Owen while taking a step toward him, “what we need will probably only take a few minutes.”

And with that, he lunges toward the man and grabs his throat with one hand, forcing him to stand up and placating him against the wall behind the couch. Curt takes out his gun from behind his back and points it toward the man.

“Don’t think about calling for help,” he says in his bad Spanish.

While Owen searches the man, Curt looks around the room – in the buffet, behind the couch, under the table – for guns and ammo. He finds a gun and a rifle, and Owen takes another gun off the man and puts it in his own belt.

“So, now that all that is off the table,” smiles Owen, “how about we really start this conversation?”

 

***

 

“You shouldn’t have killed him,” says Owen without looking at him while he slams the door of the car.  
“So he could rat us out? Jesus probably knows we’re after her at this point, no need for her to know what we look like.”

Owen looks at Curt like he took any kind of pleasure in pulling the trigger.  
He didn’t.  
Truth be told, he has never liked inflicting pain to others. Torturing and killing, it’s just part of the job, and he only does it because he knows that’s the only way to achieve what he’s doing. When he has to do it, he looks at the bigger picture, at the reason that made him become a spy, behind the status it promised him – and didn’t deliver – and the fact that he thought that it would put his life in the right path: he wanted to save the world. That had been a bit naïve, most probably, and a huge overestimation, but even today, when everything else has failed, he still believes, somewhere deep inside, that what he does helps to make the world a better place. And that when he hurts, or kills, one person, that means that so many other people aren’t hurt, or killed.  
Of course, deep in the action, he ravishes in the sensation of power and adrenaline it gives him, but that high is very short and the drop is so quick and painful that it’s not worth it at all.  
He kills and torture like he files and write reports: not because he wants to, but because he has too.  
The only thing he likes in this job is the planning, the investigation, and the thrill of knowing he’s onto something. He lives for those chases, for those moments where everything happens so quickly that he doesn’t have to think about himself, that he doesn’t have to think at all apart from what would his next move be.  
And having Owen look at him like that, like he’s a murderer: it hurts more than he would have thought.

“That guy was an arms dealer,” he says to Owen who’s still looking at him. “It’s not like his disappearance will be a big loss.”

Truth be told, he’s more surprised to see that Owen doesn’t understand that. He’s a spy too, he knows what damages can come from collateral being left alive – or, at least, he should know. And, considering how much he seems to enjoy torturing, Curt would have thought he wouldn’t be so remorseful about killing.  
Since Owen seems to still be giving him the silent treatment as he starts the car, Curt shrugs.

“Anyway, it’s too late, now.”

He doesn’t really know – or, rather, doesn’t really want to know – why Owen’s opinion of him and his act matters so much.  
Truth is, they made a good team out there. It took some… convincing, but the man gave him all he knew on Jesus. Apparently, he’s worked for her a couple of time, never met her, but he gave her the address where he made the deliveries – and where he was supposed to make one tonight.  
They’re not sure she will actually show up, not with the trail of dead or disappearing people they’ve left behind them, but they have to go and check, just to be thorough. And if they don’t catch her, they might see someone who leads them to her.  
They go on hideout at the presumed dropout point, waiting for nightfall, and Owen is abnormally silent. His constant chitchat usually annoys Curt, but right now he would gladly take it over this silent treatment. He can’t help but wonder why Owen is like that, and when exactly this started. In Russia? After Ian? After the arms dealer? He knows he shouldn’t worry about it and focus on work, but nothing happens and he’s still tired and in pain. He stops himself from taking another painkiller – he doesn’t want to numb anything away. Or, rather, he would want to numb everything, but he knows he can’t. All the calm his meeting with Ian had given him has now disappeared.  
Though Curt can swear he hasn’t lost his focus, he jumps and briskly opens his eyes when he feels Owen’s hand on his shoulder.

“Something’s happening,” whispers the English man.

The house in front of which they’re stationed, which has seemed to have been empty for years, now has a flickering light inside while the night is falling.  
Last time his eyes were open, the sun was still in the sky.  
He feels ashamed for falling asleep.  
He feels mad at Owen for not waking him up earlier.

“I take the coms, I’m going in,” whispers Owen while loading a gun and putting more ammo in his pocket. “Watch what happens here. I’ll go in from the back.”

Curt hasn’t time to protest that Owen is already out.  
He disappears between the houses a few seconds later.  
Curt watches the light inside still flickering, still in the same place. With his one good hand, he makes sure the com is still in his ear, then takes his gun out. Still out from his nap, he tries to get back to reality.  
Several minutes pass without anything happening. He even starts to wonder if his com is still functional – and is that close to taking it out to check when he hears a male voice say in Spanish:

“Who are you? Where is Gonzalo?”

Gonzalo. The arms dealer. So he didn’t lie. This is the right house.  
Owen’s answer gets lost in fighting sounds. They last for a few minutes, then there’s a loud knock and everything stops.  
Curt lets a few seconds before whispering:

“Are you still there?”

A moment passes before he hears the smile in Owen’s breathless voice.

“Yeah. But I would appreciate your help to carry this body.”  
“You killed him?”

That would be such an irony: Owen chastising him for king Gonzalo earlier, but now doing the same to someone they haven’t even interrogated.

“Nah. Just knocked him out. We need to take him somewhere they can’t find us.”  
“I’m coming,” sighs Curt as he gets out of the car, taking all of their belongings with him – they probably should steal another one to get out of this place.

Once inside, they mostly work in silence, tying the man’s hand behind his back and putting a handkerchief in his mouth. While Curt finishes that, Owen searches the rest of the house – empty, no furniture, nothing that could help them or alarm them. They then each take one of his arms over their shoulder and evacuate the house from the backside, getting to another street. There, Owen hijacks another car and, soon, they’re driving out of this neighborhood.

“That guy doesn’t look like a Jesus,” comments Owen, who has found back all of his cheerfulness.  
“Where are we going?” asks Curt in return.  
“I was just trying to put some distance between us and that house. Does the CIA have a safe house somewhere around here?”

Curt sighs. Now that Owen has gone back to talking, he wishes the silence would come back.

“We do. Go west.”

 

***

 

The new man’s interrogation didn’t lead them anywhere so far. He says the only Jesus he knows is the son of God and ended up on a cross to pay for everyone’s sins, and that he was just waiting for a friend and not at all here to buy guns. They’ve been torturing for what feels like half the night, but he sticks to his version.  
They go out of the basement and settle in the kitchen upstairs, with Owen trying to turn the stove on.

“Fuck!” he swears when that doesn’t work, hitting it with his fist. “I feel like this thing is going nowhere near a conclusion! When are we going to stop talking to someone who knows someone who may know someone and finally meet that Jesus woman?”  
“I think we’ve been too deep into it since Russia,” yawns Curt from the kitchen table. “We need to take a step back and look at the bigger picture.”

Owen turns toward him, anger in his eyes.

“Look at the bigger what? I’ve been into this shit for months, and right now I don’t feel any closer than I was in fucking July. So right now I’m going back to interrogate that son of a bitch until he answers, because I’m fucking sick of waiting.”

Curt catches Owen’s arm as he passes next to him.

“Owen.”

Owen stops dead in his track and lowers his tired eyes on him.  
Curt opens his mouths and a few seconds pass before he finally says something.

“I’ve never heard you swear that much before.”  
“Well you’ve probably never seen me so fucking angry,” mumbles Owen, but with less conviction.  
“I think,” says Curt without letting go of his wrist, “that we should let him soak his pants for a couple of hours. Jesus isn’t scheduled to arrive at least until morning, if we count the time difference, and so far we’ve got no other lead, so…” He shrugs, and finally lets go of him. “Let him feel the fear, alone in the dark. Maybe he’ll answer our questions after.”

He then gets up and manages to turn on the stove after a few tries.

“You want some coffee?” he asks without turning back.

He hears Owen take place in the chair he just left.

“Yeah.” Then, after a few seconds: “Thanks, love.”

 

***

 

It’s nearly morning when they finally get a confession out of him. And by the time he speaks, Curt is no longer the most injured person in the room.  
It’s mostly Owen who does all the work. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he moves, talks and acts, though the result is cruel and bloody. At times, it almost seems like a dance. Curt can’t help but be fascinated by it, though he doesn’t know if Owen truly enjoys it, or if his good mood is just for show.  
Mostly, his own role was to be a menacing figure in the background, only there to remind their guy – Pedro – that if he goes after Owen, there’s still another one to break him. He asked questions, did a few pinching and patting here and there, but Owen took care of most of the work. For once, Curt is glad not to have had two perfectly working hands.  
Finally, Pedro gives out a meeting point, where he was supposed to deliver the arms he should have taken at the house. It’s a parking lot, and he was to put the arms in the trunk of a car, and not stick around to see who was driving it. He swears he hasn’t. Never.  
And that’s supposed to happen in less than an hour.  
Owen turns himself away from the bloodied and stroke with tears face of the man, to look at Curt.

“What do you want to do with him?”

Curt shrugs. “Let’s just leave him here for now. If he’s still alive when we come back, we’ll decide.”

Owen nods, and leans toward Pedro. “See you later, love,” he whispers in Spanish with a smile.

When they leave the house, Curt has reached that point where he no longer feels tired and a rebound energy is filling him. Something deep inside, a kind of instinct, tells him this will soon be over. Next to him, Owen yawns while zipping his jacket.

“Do you want me to drive?” asks Curt.  
Owen throws him a glance. “Can you?”

Curt raises his injured hand. He’s past everything : the pain, the tiredness, the anger. He’s at that point where, on the one hand, he just wants it to be over, and on the other, the thrill of it all could keep him going for hours.

“I’m fine. You look tired.”

Owen shrugs.

“Let me just steal another car. The other one may have been noticed.”

A few minutes later, they’re on their way to the parking lot. They reach it not even five minutes before the given time. Curt parks and puts his hand on Owen’s knee – he had been drowsing during the ride.

“We’re there,” he whispers before quickly taking back his hand.

Owen rubs his eyes with his hand.

“The car’s over there,” indicates Curt with a nod.

It’s on the opposite side of the parking lot from them, but they have a clear view on it. The sun is rising behind them, which means they can clearly see who will get there, but will be harder to see in return.  
Both of them slowly take out their guns at the same time, checking that they’re loaded. Owen even screws a silencer on his.  
They wait in silence a few minutes. A car arrives and parks, and a tall man gets out of it and walks into the city.  
Ten minutes later, no one has approached their target car. Is Jesus really the one to drive it? Is she waiting to see the arms delivery before getting into it? Or did she get suspicious and decided to not even show up?  
Owen gives him a quick hit with his elbow and nods toward a woman, briskly crossing the parking lot. She doesn’t go anywhere near the car, but something about her air makes it clear that she’s not from here. Owen puts his hand on the door handle.

“You stop her with the car, I’ll go by foot.”

Curt nods and ignites the engine as Owen closes his door. The woman doesn’t turn her head toward them, but her walk becomes quicker. She’s tall, wearing high heels and a suit that would be more fitted for New York that for this neighborhood. Sunglasses blocks them from having a complete view of her face.  
Curt maneuvers in the parking lot and stops dead in his track when he crosses her path.

“I’m so sorry” he says in Spanish with a smile as he gets out of the car. “I didn’t see you. Are you alright?”

He can tell by her fake smile that she doesn’t buy his act, but he can see Owen approaching behind her.

His smile widens and he says: “But you’re safe, thank _Jesus_.”

She tenses and take a step back, but Owen stops her with his gun on the small of her back.  
He would have expected her to be scared, or retort something, or draw out a gun, but she smiles.

“Oh, so there’s more than one of you? A party, how nice!” she says in an accent that is definitely American.  
“Well, you’ve been so good at playing hide and seek, we all were excited to meet you,” says Curt while taking a good look at her.

He’s positive he’s never seen her at the CIA before, but he has a limited knowledge of who the other agents are – for their own good –, so she may as well be one.

“You know, I never thought that it would be Curt Mega who would find me.”

Curt tries to pass over the fact that she knows who he is.

“So you admit you’re Jesus.”  
“People call me that, yes.”  
“Who are you working for?”  
“Are you really willing to have this conversation in the middle of a parking lot, where everyone can see us – and especially your little friend with his gun?”

She tries to turn her head toward Owen, but Curt catches her chin in his good hand to force her to look forward. Her jaw contracts and he smiles without letting her go.

“You’re right. How about we took that somewhere more comfortable?”

He throws a glance at Owen, who takes another gun out and hit her on the head. She collapses on Curt, who barely catches her.

“Let’s tie her up in the car and take her to the safe house,” says Owen while already opening the back door and shuffling through a bag to catch some rope.

 

***

 

They knocked Pedro out – who was still breathing when they arrived – and locked him in a cupboard upstairs to evacuate the basement for Jesus. They both have contacted their bosses – this mission is bigger than both of them, if Jesus really is a double agent. They now only have a few hours to interrogate her before the CIA lands and take her to the US for a more thorough investigation.  
Curt has got Owen to agree not to show himself to her: she may know Curt, but if Owen is a card they can keep hidden, better use him at his best.  
Curt wakes her up by throwing a bucket of cold water on her. She coughs, spits, then plants her eyes on Curt, who is sitting in front of her, and smiles behind her wet face.

“Hi, Curt. Thanks for the nap.” She then looks around her. “Oh, so you took me here? Nice thinking. I’ll run away more easily when I escape.”  
“Don’t worry: you won’t escape.”  
“Oh yeah, and who would stop me? You?” She smirks. “You have a broken hand and that bump on your head doesn’t look really nice, darling. Trust me, you won’t be a challenge for me."  
“Well, you’re tied to a chair, and I’m not, so it seems like you might be wrong. So tell me: who are you working for?”

Her smile gets kinkier.

“I’m Jesus. Who do you think I’m working for?”  
“Please don’t tell me the pope.”  
She laughs briefly. “I know a lot of things about you, Curt, but I never thought you actually had a sense of humor.”  
“I’m full of surprises that way.”  
“That I already know.”  
“So I guess you’re CIA.”  
“I’m Jesus.”

He gets up, slowly walks toward her and, after holding her stare a few seconds, slaps her.

“I guess you won’t mind holding the other cheek, right?”

She stares at him defiantly with her big blue eyes, and turns her head the other way.

He scoffs. “So what’s next, then? You’re gonna ask me for a cross?”  
“You’re playing, Curt, but you can’t actually do anything to me.”  
He walks back to his chair, ostensibly turning his back to her. “Again: you’re tied to that chair. I’m not.”  
“But you don’t know who I am, and I know everything about you, Curt. You should start taking me seriously.”  
“Oh, but I do.”  
“Not enough,” she smiles. “When I say I know everything, Curt, I mean everything. All that Cynthia knows, and more.”

Curt starts to feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want either Jesus or Owen to see.

“But we’re not here to talk about me. I’d love to hear about you, you know? Since you know everything, maybe we should even the chances, what do you think?”

She seems to actually think about it, and finally says:

“You want to know what I think, Curt? I think you already told Cynthia or whatever high-ranked CIA person that you got me, that they’re on their way here and that what you’re doing here is only a way to try and salvage your already very poor career and reputation. I think I’m too big for you, and you know it, and only luck allowed you to catch me. I think you don’t dare mess up too much with me in case you, you know, mess up. And I think – no, I know – that you actually won’t get anything for me, no matter how hard you try because, remember, I’m a trained agent, I know all your techniques, and I’ve already faced worse than you pretty face.”

When she’s done, her smile is really smug.  
And the worst of it is that she’s right.  
But he also knows he can’t just stay here doing nothing while he waits for the CIA. Especially with Owen’s eyes on him.  
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Since you think you know all that, how about we have a little chat? Just to kill time. Or maybe you’d rather just stay here alone in the dark?”  
“And here I was, hoping you’d gallantly propose to stay in the dark with me. Lots of things we could have done; though I’m not sure you would have appreciated them.”

Curt doesn’t dare look at Owen. First, because there’s still a good chance she doesn’t know he’s here, and second, because he’s not sure he wants to see how he looks at him. He just knows he’s got to stop her babbling about all that.

“Not today, love” he smiles, realizing just after saying it how he stole Owen’s expression. “So here’s the deal: you’re going down, and you know it. This is the end to your story. Even if you escaped, I know your face, I know you’re CIA, and your cover will be blown up in no time. The fact is: whatever happens, you won’t be able to do what you do anymore. So either we wait here for Cynthia to pick you up and interrogate you – and if you know Cynthia, as I suspect you do, you can agree that this won’t be a pleasant time –, or we could have a civil conversation, just you and me, right here, right now.”  
“Oh, please, we both now that Cynthia won’t accept anything that comes out of this civil conversation and I’ll end up being interrogated by her anyway. But you know what? You do actually seem like a nice guy, Curt, and though it’s a terrible thing in this line of work, I’ll give you some advice, just for the sake of it.”  
“Advices from you? That should be great.”

She tries to lean toward him, but the ropes around her body stop her and she leans back against the chair.

“I can hear your sarcasm, but you’re still young and inexperienced, so I’ll forgive it. So first off: don’t be a nice guy. Nice guys only get walked on, and no agent has even gone higher in rank by being nice. Look at me. Look at Cynthia! Do you think we got where we are by being nice?”  
“Well, I know I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now.”

He also knows that all the adrenaline from earlier is leaving him, and he starts to feel exhausted. Maybe all of her words are hitting him harder than he thought – than he would want them too. But he has to keep pretending everything’s fine – as always.

She laughs. “What I’m saying is, I’ve got the power here. You caught me, and yet I run the game.”  
“Not for long, I’m afraid.”  
“Yeah,” she sighs. “And who will be in the lead, then? Not you, that’s for sure.”

He sees Owen standing away from the wall, but he slightly shakes his head to stop him. He can still handle this.  
And after all, Jesus is right: all they have to do right now is wait for the higher authorities to take her and make sure she’s still there when they arrive.  
They’re just babysitters: him babysitting Jesus, and Owen babysitting him. Owen didn’t deserve that. He should have let him lead the interrogation. Owen would have gotten something out of her – something other than “you’re a nice guy”.

“So here’s the second advice,” she continues. “If you don’t want people to step on you, you’ve got to step on them. That’s the only way to the top. If you’re too nice, no matter how good you are at what you do, people will use you to get to the top.”  
“So how about I use you to get to the top?”  
“That could be an idea,” she laughs. “But didn’t you say that I was already down?”

He is the one who feels down right now. Truth be told – he always is.

“And thirdly,” she keeps going, “my last advice would be never to let anyone lull you to sleep by telling you bedtime stories," she smiles widely.

Not even a second later, Owen is behind her, his hands around her wrists and whispering in her ear:

"Not so fast, love."  
"Oh, so there you are! I'm glad to finally hear your voice. Is that a British accent I detect?"

Curt feels stupid not to have prevented this turn of events. He should have watched her more closely instead of just listening to her fake-ass advice.  
And now Owen had to intervene and rescue him. Again. He's been nothing but weak since the beginning of this mission, and it's no wonder Cynthia didn't even want to send him in the first place.

"Oh no, please, keep looking at Curt," says Owen when she tries to look at him.  
"You have such a nice voice, darling, I just wanted to know if you were as pretty as you sound. Curt, is he pretty?"

Yes, thinks Curt. But he doesn't answer and stays impassible.

"So you still think you can escape?" he asks instead.  
"Oh, we still have a little time to see that."

Owen tightens her links and steps back to his original place.

"You're not staying with me, dear British guy?" she asks with something sounding like regret. "Not that I don't like chatting with you, Curt, but you don't have much of a banter. Your friend, on the other hand… well, we didn’t have that many occasion to talk, but I can feel how well we could get along. After all, he does seem kind of flirty. Are you flirting with me, British guy?”  
“Don’t take it personally, he’s like that with everyone,” retorts Curt without thinking.  
“You sound jealous, Curt.”  
“Well, you seem to want to talk with him more than with me, so that kinda hurts my feelings.”

He knows he’s saying everything he should, but he can’t help but feel like something is off. And he still avoids meeting Owen’s eyes, though his presence is no longer a secret.

“Aw, poor Curt. It sucks to be no one’s favorite, huh?”

He just stares at here without doing anything for a few seconds – the time to take the hit and be able to pretend it didn’t get to him. He’s about to retort something when his watch beeps. A quick message gets on the screen.

“Seems like our time together is coming to an end. But tell me – I’m just being curious: why did you do all that? Were you working for the Russians?”

She laughs.

“Do you really expect me to answer that?”  
“Since this is probably the last civil conversation you’ll have before a while, I was thinking you might like to.”  
“I didn’t expect you to be that smooth, Curt Mega. But fine. You’re not going to do anything with this information, and I feel pity for you, so I’m just going to do it to make you feel better.”

He’s about to answer that he doesn’t need her pity, but she just keeps going without noticing him.

“No, I’m not working for the Russian. I’m not working for anyone but God.”  
“Hence the Jesus alias.”  
“Hence, indeed.”  
“So why are you doing that? Killing people, exposing agents, stealing documents? Whose side are you on?”  
“You don’t understand, do you? No, you probably don’t. Your mind is not wide enough to get that. There are no side.”  
“We’re in the middle of a cold war.”  
“Yeah, whatever. Right now it’s a cold war, before it was a world war, what’s next? There is always going to be a war, and everyone is always going to believe they’re on the good side. But we’re manipulated. All of us. Yes, especially you, Curt. What I do is expose those who are rotten, so they can’t corrupt the rest of us anymore.”  
“What a noble goal.”  
“I can hear the sarcasm in your voice again, and yet I can promise you I’m much less of an idealist that you are. And if you don’t accept right now that you’re not as much on the right side as you think you are, you’re in for a big disillusion later.”

And then, trying to lean forward as much as she can, she whispers:

“You’re a pawn, Curt Mega.”  
“I’m not a—” starts Curt, but his watch and Owen’s beep at the same time. “Well,” he says after checking it, “looks like our time together is over. It has been lovely meeting you, Jesus.”

He gets up as the door in the back of the room opens and a handful of men in hoods burst in. He was half-scared to see Cynthia leading them, but apparently she has decided that she already lost enough time going to Russia to bother coming this time.  
The men untie Jesus from the chair and, before they knock her out to lead her out the room, she has the time to give a look at Owen.

“You’re as good looking as your voice suggested, British guy. Were you trying to keep him to yourself by hiding him, Curt?”

And after that she’s chloroformed and collapses in the arms on the men who hold her.  
There’s a rumble as they take her out and some other come and talk to Owen and Curt separately. The next few minutes go out in a haze, with the CIA infiltrating the house, taking the other interrogated man, and making sure everything is clean before they leave.  
Curt eventually is freed to approach Owen.

“We should get our things.”  
“Yeah. I guess you’re leaving with them?”

Curt nods. Despite, or maybe because of the exhaustion, everything around him seems very acute and precise – especially Owen. A lump comes lodge himself in his throat. He holds out his hand.

“You did a good job,” he manages to mumble.  
“You too, Curt,” answers Owen while holding it.

Curt shrugs. He wants to add something, but he doesn’t really know what. He doesn’t know what Owen got out of Jesus’ insinuations. He doesn’t know whether he’s ever going to see him again. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

So he crosses his eyes and says: “Thanks for letting me help you on that mission. And good luck. For what comes next.”

He then forces himself to let go of his hand.

“I guess my boss will let your boss know what comes out of it,” he mumbles while putting his fists in the pockets of his jacket and looking elsewhere.  
“Yeah. I guess,” answers Owen.

For once, he too seems to be at a loss for words. His watch beeps, and Curt observes him while he’s looking at it.

“I’ve got a plane in two hours. I should get going,” says Owen.  
“Okay.”  
“Bye, then.”  
“Bye.”

There’s an awkward silence where they just stand there looking at each other, and finally Curt nods and goes toward the other CIA men.  
He still feels like that was the part of the mission he handled the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Curt have a thing for English accents? Hell yeah.
> 
> Do i use the phrase "truth be told" way too much ? Hell yeah.
> 
> Thanks to my friend Apple for lending me her Ian character ! When she introduced him to me, my first thought was 'Him and Curt would be perfect to NOT talk about their depression together!", are they ? Hell yeah.
> 
> BTW, as a side note, i had originally planned to post each sunday, but since next week I'll be somewhere in the middle of the white snow of Norway, i won't be able to. So yeah, next chapter when i get back!


	6. Paris – August 1953

When he opens the door to his hotel room, Curt is surprised to find a bag on one of the bed, alongside a nagging sensation of déjà-vu.  
He understands why when the door opens again behind him a few seconds later and he turns to see the newcomer.

“Oh,” says the other.

He stays quiet a few seconds, something falling in the pit of his stomach. Anger, probably. Shame, maybe. Nervousness, a bit.

“I didn’t expect it to be you,” he finally says to Owen, still standing in front of the closed door.  
“Me neither,” sighs Owen before his usual smile is back to his face – Curt is surprised to realize he hasn’t forgotten it – and he walks toward him, hand extended. “Nice to see you again, man.”  
“Yeah, you too,” says Curt while shaking it.  
“So, how have you been?” asks Owen while sitting on the bed he claimed as his own.

Curt shrugs while opening his bag.

“Fine. You?”  
“You know, the usual. I broke an arm in Cairo before Christmas, but it’s working just fine now.”

He extends his right arm and flexes it just to show. Curt can’t help but look at him.

“It’s your shooting arm.”  
“Yeah, I had a bit of trouble before I could use it properly again, took me a couple of month, but now I’m fine. I used the resting time to perfect my Russian,” he smiles his crooked smile.

Without thinking, Curt walks toward him and catches his arm, pushing the shirt up to the elbow. A scar runs along the inner side of the forearm.

“These things take time to heal. You shouldn’t rush your recovery.”

He traces the scar with his fingers, turning the arm in his hands.

“Curt. I know that. I went to a doctor. Why so serious, man? And you, how about your fingers? And your… well, mostly everything.”

Curt slowly lets go of his arm and takes a few steps back, before returning to looking for something – anything – in his suitcase.

“I’m fine.”  
“You’re always fine,” says Owen in a tone that sounds both bitter and playful while putting down his sleeve. “What are you looking for so ferociously in that bag?”

Curt stops rummaging though his things – everything is a mess, now, he’ll have to sort all that out later – and sighs.

“Nothing.”

He closes his bag and sits on the bed, facing Owen. After a few seconds watching his own hands, he raises his head and finds Owen staring at him, holding himself on his hands on the mattress behind him. Again, the knot in is stomach grows bigger. After the Jesus case, he thought he’d put all that behind him. He’s done his job, he didn’t let himself be distracted by anything, and he did everything Cynthia told him to and more. He’s worked alone, mostly, but also had to team up with a few other agents – another CIA in South America, a French lady in Winnipeg – that’s in Canada –, and a couple other English fellas in Brazil and Taiwan. Everything has run swimmingly – well, no, everything was a disaster, but his usual disaster, so as close as fine as he could get. He buried everything under work, pain – he broke a few ribs and his clavicle took a nasty hit – and fake smiles – he even got a girlfriend. Cynthia has not been satisfied by anything he did, but when has she ever been?  
But right now, staring at Owen in this tiny French hotel room, he just feels everything coming back to his throat, as if there’s something he should have done and didn’t.  
There’s nothing he should have done.  
Nothing he _could_ have done.  
And yet, like Owen, the feeling is there. The anger is there. He wriggles his fingers not to let it out.

“So do you have any idea where we should start?” he finally says as an attempt to push all that aside.

 

***

 

They’ve been sent to Paris to stop a Chinese diplomat from meeting with a French one. The French guy is suspected of leaning toward the communist side, and the Chinese could lead him to start working for them. Basically, they have to follow both men, make sure they’re not in the same place at the same time and, if possible, gather as much intel as they can on the Chinese man to stop him from acting further on any other diplomat.  
The brief Curt got from Cynthia didn’t indicate that he should kill him, but he knows he can get to that if need be or if the opportunity presents itself.  
They decide to each follow one man, and switch every day, to avoid being recognized, and that works perfectly for Curt: he will mostly work alone and his interactions with Owen will be limited to the daily report they give each other.  
That doesn’t give him any kind of sleep pattern – mostly because the surveillance is supposed to be 24/7 – but that contains the anger in the pit of his stomach. He tries not to spend too much of his hours of stakeout lingering on it, but sometimes he can’t help himself.  
He doesn’t know who he’s the most mad at. Cynthia, for not telling him he was working with Owen? Owen himself, for being the same as the last time they met – as every time they met: smiling, flirty, careless, messy? Himself, for hoping for things that will never be and messing every single thing he does?  
If he’s honest, it’s himself.  
But honesty isn’t very comforting. Especially in those dead hours of the night, when he feels so tired but knows he can’t fall asleep.  
For those times, though he knows he’s not supposed to do that, he has started to carry a small flask of whisky – a tip he stole from Owen a few month back, when he realized how good of an anesthetic it could prove to be. And sometimes, just to keep him busy, awake, and to feel something warm inside of him, he drinks from it. Not so much that it alters his senses, but enough to just make him feel not as bad.  
It’s not like anything happens, anyway.  
Actually, when something happens, after three days of stakeout, it’s during the day. He’s keeping an eye on an uninteresting meeting of the French diplomat with another French diplomat when he gets a call from Owen.

“Steve is Dead.”  
“What?”  
“At his hotel. I’ll explain when you’re there.”

It takes him half an hour to cross the city, and he finally joins Owen in a small alley alongside the hotel.

“So what happened?”  
“I don’t know. I was on the roof, looking at his room through the window with binoculars, and he was alone, drinking wine or something, and suddenly he collapsed.”  
“Assassination?”  
“Or stroke.”  
“Did anybody see him yet?”  
“Nope.”  
“Did you go inside?”  
“I was waiting for you,” smiles Owen his crooked smile.

Curt looks at the hotel façade.

“So what are we waiting for now?”  
“Nothing. Let’s go.”

Owen passes by him, briefly putting his hand on his shoulder. Curt takes a few seconds before following him.

 

***

 

Owen picks the lock while Curt watches the corridor, and a few seconds later they are in without anyone having seen them.  
The hotel room looks nothing like theirs. It has bright large windows, a tall ceiling and the bed is wider than the two of theirs put together. It has an en suite bathroom, and even a corner with a couch, a couple of chairs and a coffee table.  
The Chinese diplomat is laying in one of the chairs, a glass of wine splattered next to him. The bottle, mostly full, is still on the table.  
Curt goes directly to him and crouches next to his head. He puts two fingers on his neck.

“He’s dead.”  
“Told you,” answers Owen, who is opening the drawers to the buffet and dropping their content on the floor.

Curt looks at him with a dark eye, but turns toward the bottle of wine and sniffs it. It smells like wine. He considers emptying his flask to put some of the wine in it, but if this is really poisoned, that could turn out incredibly dangerous. So instead, he turns toward the bathroom and empties a shower gel bottle.  
When he comes back to the room, Owen is taking off all of the sheets of the bed.

“What are you doing?” he can’t stop himself for asking.  
“I’m looking to see if our man had any interesting documents.  
“Well, I won’t help you put all that back.”  
“Now why would I do that?”  
“To make sure no one knows we ever were there?”  
“The man is dead. Whether we were here or not, there’s gonna be some kind of investigation.”

Curt refrains the will to insult him with a deep breath and goes back to the wine bottle. He puts on a glove before taking it and emptying a few milliliters inside the empty shower gel bottle. He then puts it back carefully at its original place and puts the sample inside his jacket.  
He leans over the corps and goes through his pocket. He finds a wallet, some receipts, and something handwritten in Chinese on a napkin. He takes the receipt and napkin, looks inside the wallet for anything interesting, but there’s only money and a passport. He puts it back.  
When he turns around, the whole room is a mess and Owen is emptying the content of the bed tables. He feels all of the anger he’s been containing for days bubble into his throat.

“Stop,” he growls.

Owen turns toward him, an empty drawer in his hand.

“What?”  
“Stop making a mess of everything. That’s not how a spy is supposed to be.”  
“Oh, come on, love. What’s the point of this job if we can’t have a bit of fun?”

Curt briskly walks toward him.

“This is not about fun! This is about doing our fucking job, which means being fucking discreet, and not letting anyone fucking know we even were here! And nothing of that includes making the room look like an angry raccoon got into it!”

Curt is only a few inches from Owen, and he makes himself as tall as he can and rises his chin just to reach his height – and he still misses a few inches.

“Wow, calm down, love.” says Owen while putting the drawer on the bed.  
“And don’t. Fucking! Call me! Love!” eructs Curt.

He doesn’t even know why he even got flustered by Owen: he is, and has always been, a reckless, messy agent, who has never, ever, been able to cover his tracks or hold his most primal instincts. Nothing about him has ever been serious or neat, as if he thought himself too good to comply to basic logical survival rules.

“Okay, Curt, you’re slightly overreacting, and I think that—”  
“I’m not–” starts yelling Curt before stopping and repeating in a whisper: “I’m not overreacting. I just want you to do your work properly, dammit! You’re supposed to be a fucking spy, not a kid in a toy shop,” he hammers while catching Owen by the collar of his shirt to stop him from running away. “You’re so fucking selfish you don’t even take the time to think about the consequences to your actions and how they can affect other people. You may not care about what others think of you, but I sure don’t want to pass as inapt at my job because some _asshole_ like you thought it would be _fun_ to make a mess out of everything.”

Their faces are the closest they’ve ever been, and the look of surprise on Owen’s is so unnerving that Curt is _this close_ to slapping him.

“Okay, Curt, listen to–” starts Owen in a calm tone.

But Curt doesn’t want to hear what he has to say, he doesn’t fucking care about his excuses or his explanation, he just wants him to _shut up_ and everything to _stop_ , all of this mess in the room, around them and inside of him – mostly inside of him –, so he just forces his lips on Owen’s and kisses him, eyes closed.  
There’s a few seconds of blissful silence before Owen slightly opens his lips – probably to argue something –, so Curt puts his other hand behind his head, holding him in place by sliding his fingers in his hair, and kisses him harder, biting his lips and letting his tongue meet Owen’s.  
But when Owen puts a hand on his shoulder, probably to push him away, he snaps back to reality and quickly steps away from him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He darkly stares at Owen, who still seems under shock.

“If I had known that was what it took for you to shut up, I’d have done it earlier,” he mumbles before turning back to the content of the drawers spread across the floor and starting to pick it up to hide his own shock. What the fucking fuck got into him?  
He throws things back in the drawers, not even bothering to fold them, and asks briskly: “Did you even find anything while you were emptying those?”  
There’s a few seconds of silence behind him before Owen answers, in his usual playful tone: “Nah. That Chinese fella either had nothing to hide or he was better at hiding it than the usual Chinese fella. And that was a great kiss, by the way. You really scared me back there. I thought you were gonna hit me at some point, but–”  
“Shut up!” yells Curt while turning back to him.

Putting the sheets back on the bed, Owen smiles at him.

“Or what? You’ll kiss me again? Careful, love, that trick might end up getting old if you use it too often,” he winks at him before going back to his task.

He _winked_. It takes a second for Curt to go back to shoving clothes back in drawers.  
Even after that, Owen doesn’t hate him.  
Somehow, he feels slightly less angered.  
They work in silence for a moment, then there’s an exclamation from Owen.

“Oh! Now what is that…”

Curt straightened, turns and walks to him.  
Owen is crouching next to the bed, hands between the mattress and the bedsprings.

“You found something?” asks Curt.  
“Looks like out Chinese fella indeed was better at hiding things than the usual Chinese fella.”

He then takes out a file of papers and opens it.

“It’s all in Chinese. You can read Chinese?”

Curt shakes his head.

“Nah. But take it. I’ll check the bathroom.”

Owen puts it inside his jacket while Curt steps into the bathroom. But he just has the time to open the cupboard before he hears a knock on the bedroom door. He runs back to the room. Another knock. Owen is standing where he left him.

“We have to leave,” whispers Owen.  
“ _Monsieur Li ?_ ” asks a feminine voice behind the door.  
Curt nods, then looks around him. “The window,” he whispers in return.  
“ _Monsieur Li ?_ ” repeats the voice. “ _Vous êtes là ? On nous a signalé des cris à la réception. Je vais entrer dans quelques secondes._ ”

Curt quickly opens the door to the balcony. The key rattles in the lock of the bedroom’s door. Owen slides outside. He follows him. The key stops rattling. Owen stands against the wall on the left of the window. Curt pushes back the door until the handle clicks and stands on the right side of the window, mimicking Owen.

“ _Monsieur Li ?_ ” calls a voice inside the room, just before she yells.

From his side of the window, Owen smiles at Curt and rises his hand, showing a thumb up.  
Curt can’t help but smile back.  
They stay there a few seconds, then look around them. Soon the place will be swarming with police officers and who knows what else. They have to leave.  
They’re four stories high, so jumping is not an option. The next balcony is three meters away – not an option either. Curt looks above him. Two stories separate them from the roof, and there are a lot of moldings on the wall.  
He looks at Owen and points his finger upward.

 

***

 

Curt holds out his hand to help Owen reach the roof. Owen laughs as the lands next to him, then stands up.

“Well that’s what I call a close call.”  
“Yeah,” answers Curt while reflexively swiping the dust off his pants. “One more second and they caught us. Come on, we gotta go along those roofs before someone notices us.”  
“Oh, love, don’t fool yourself: somebody probably noticed the two dudes climbing the walls of this hotel.”  
“Let’s not get noticed anymore than that, then.”

Curt starts to walk away. Owen joins him in a few steps and says:

“Come on, admit it: that was kind of fun, right?”

Curt throws him a side glance. Owen has one hand in his pocket and uses the other to slick his hair back. He smile is wide and his stance assured.

“Yeah. Kind of,” admits Curt.

He’s not sure himself what he’s talking about.

 

***

 

The shooting starts when they come down of the roofs a few streets away.

“What the fuck is that?” asks Curt while hiding behind a bin.  
“I don’t know. The police? The ones who killed Monsieur Li?” suggest Owen while crouching next to him.

Curt risks a glance on the side. More shootings.

“They don’t really look like the police.”

Owen takes out his gun at the same time as him.

“Shit. They must have been watching the hotel to see who found the corpse.”  
“We should have been more careful.”

The shootings grow closer. Curt looks at Owen for a few seconds then goes inside his jacket and withdraws the sample of wine.

“Take that.”  
“Why?” asks Owen while taking it.  
“We need to split up. Go back on the roofs. I’ll hold them here.”  
“That’s crazy! They might get you.”  
“They’ll get both of us if you stay there. Go. You have the documents and the sample of wine. If I’m not at the hotel by midnight—”  
“You’ll be there,” interrupts Owen.

He then puts the bottle inside his jacket, nods and starts to walk back up the stairs. Curt watches him climb for a few seconds before being brought back to more urgent matters by the sound of gunshot. He puts his hand on the trigger of his own arm.

 

***

 

When Curt opens the hotel door, Owen immediately jumps from the bed he was sitting on – not his own, notices Curt.

“Jesus, Curt, you’re back!”

He stops a few feet from him. Curt nods and locks the door.

“Are you alright?” asks Owen.

Outside, the night is dark. He nearly missed his curfew.

“I’m fine. But you’re not.”

Indeed, there’s dry blood on half of Owen’s forehead, coming from a cut Curt can see despite of all the red.

“What happened to you?” asks Curt while taking off his jacket – the summer air is way too hot in this small room with the windows they don’t dare opening. “Did someone come after you?”  
Owen laughs. “I fell when climbing down from the roofs. Not very heroic, huh?”  
“It’s still an injury. You need to tend to that. Sit down,” orders Curt while starting to look in his bag for the first aid kit.  
“How about you? What happened? What took you so long? You’re sure you didn’t get hurt?” asks Owen while still complying to Curt’s order, sitting on his own bed this time.  
“I’m fine,” repeats Curt. He puts antiseptic on a towel and starts applying it on Owen’s forehead. “I took out two of them and the third one ran away, so I had to go after him.”

Owen winces when Curt puts the towel on his wound.

“Sorry,” says Curt in an abrupt tone he didn’t want to take.

He’s still tense from all that chase and the past few hours, and seeing Owen full of blood – even if the wound is only superficial – gave him another hit.

“That’s fine,” brushes out Owen before laughing. “I sounded just like you.”

Curt smiles briefly and keeps cleaning his head.

“So did you catch the guy?” asks Owen.  
“No. I lost track of him at some point. I kept looking around, but…”  
“No luck,” concludes Owen.  
“Yeah,” sighs Curt.

There’s a few seconds of silence as Curt slowly comes down from his adrenaline high and realizes how close he is to Owen. The kiss from that afternoon comes back to him. He pushes it away and focuses on the wound.

“You think Cynthia will be mad at you because of that,” says Owen – an affirmation, not a question.  
“Cynthia is always mad at me,” answers Curt noncommittally.  
Owen laughs briefly. “Yeah, I kinda got that vibe from her. Is she always mad at everyone else too?”  
“Dunno. Maybe.” Curt doesn’t want to think about Cynthia, but he wants even less to think about the proximity of Owen’s face, so he keeps going. “She’s slightly nicer with her assistant. I think.”  
“She seemed mad at me when I met her.”  
“You’re British,” says Curt as if it’s an explanation.

Silence comes and takes its space between them. Owen seems calmer than when he arrived.

“It’s not a big wound,” finally says Curt, “but you’re gonna need some stitches. You trust me to do them for you?”

Owen looks up to him and Curt catches his eyes.

“Yeah. I trust you.”

The lump immediately comes back to his throat, and Curt nods while going back to the first aid kit. He comes back with a small needle and some thread. He puts the thread through the hole and make a knot.

“Sorry. It’s gonna hurt.”  
“Not my first time,” answers Owen.

The wound is just above his right eyebrow, and Owen winces when Curt pushes the needle inside his skin. Inside of him, Curt winces back. He pauses.

“Keep going,” encourages Owen. “I’d rather it not last too long.”

Curt obeys and tries to make it as quick and painless as possible, despite Owen’s balled fist and hisses.  
He eventually makes his final knot, drops the needle back in the first aid kit and puts a bit more antiseptic, just to make sure everything’s clean.

“It’s done. You should put a bandage on it, but I don’t have one that would fit right now. It would come off during the night. But do it tomorrow.”

This time, it’s Owen who catches his hand as he withdraws it. Curt freezes.

“Thank you, Curt,” says Owen while holding his eyes.

Curt nods, but doesn’t move back.  
Slowly, Owen puts his hand on his neck and pulls Curt toward him. He closes his eyes and their lips meet. It’s slower than in the other hotel room, sweeter, more careful. It’s just the lips, and it only lasts a few seconds before Owen withdraws – just by inches.

“What are you doing?” asks Curt in a whisper, opening his eyes, when none of them show any sign of moving.  
“What you didn’t dare to do.”

And then Owen kisses him again and it feels like breathing.

 

***

 

Curt wakes up suddenly after what feels like only seconds. The night is still pitch black.  
Maybe it was only seconds.  
He feels Owen’s body behind him, and his limp arm around his middle. His breathing is sound asleep.  
Curt stays still for a moment, wondering what just happened. No matter how he looks at it, that was a terrible idea. Like all terrible ideas, it did seem amazing on the moment, but that kind of high never lasts long enough.  
Carefully, he pushes Owen’s arm and sits on the edge of the bed. He takes his watch he had put on the bed stand. There’s a message from CIA. He is to be back before the end of the day.  
He puts his watch back.  
Behind him, he hears Owen move in his sleep, and then Owen’s hand lands on the small of his back.  
He shivers.

“Where you going?” asks Owen in a sleepy voice, his thumb tracing circles against his skin.  
“Bathroom.”  
“You coming back, huh?”

Curt checks the time on his watch.

“Yeah.”

He then gets up and finds his clothes in the dark. Owen moves in the bed, and soon his breathing becomes even again.  
Curt puts his things back in his bag, and catches the file in Chinese and the bottle with the sample in Owen’s jacket. He puts them inside before closing it.  
He stands there a few seconds, hesitating, and gives a glance at Owen. He sighs, opens back his bag and takes out a bandage and a piece of paper. He finds a pen inside his jacket and, after another long hesitation, writes: “Sorry.”  
He puts the bandage and the paper on his own still made bed and, as quietly as possible, opens the door.  
Before closing it, he turns toward Owen, who is still sleeping.  
That might be his last look at him, after all.  
When the door is closed, he starts walking toward the stairs and takes the flask out of his jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing it, I pointed to my roomate that the dialogue with the stitches could very hilariously have been reused if I ever decided to write a sex scene.  
> Sadly, i don't do that kind of stuff.  
> What a waste.  
> (But please feel free to see it as homoerotic subtext) (I sure do.)
> 
> btw, Norway was beautiful but I, like dear Owen and Curt, am now back in dear old Paris. And oh, how lovely is the smell of spring.
> 
> And, if anyone is wondering, the sentences in French roughly translate to "Are you there? Some yelling was signaled at the reception desk. I'm going to come in a few seconds."


	7. Istanbul – January 1954

Being caught in a shooting in the port of Istanbul was not exactly Curt’s first choice on how to spend New Year’s Eve but, if he is completely honest, he’d much rather be here than having dinner with Sally and her friends – his original plans. Truth be told, when Cynthia had summoned him and given him this mission, he was a little bit relieved.  
So he gave his girlfriend a kiss and another excuse of his last-minute-work-trip, ignored her sad look, and jumped on the plane. Of course, at the time, he didn’t know for sure about the shooting but, as always, it was a possibility.  
The mission was not that hard in itself: he just had to get the plan for a revolutionary Russian submarine that could sign the demise of their side. The problem was that the revolutionary reputation of the thing has reached way past the CIA and 1) it was heavily protected and 2) many other people wanted it. He knew there were other agents, from other agencies, on it – earlier, he’s briefly teamed up with a French lady –, but other much less official organizations had also shown interest in the project: if the thing was as good as its reputation said, then everybody wanted it.  
And this is why he is caught in this shooting, at almost midnight on New Year’s Eve: the rogues have apparently decided to team up for the moment and shoot down everyone who is looking for the same thing as them – which means Curt, but also every other agent in the perimeter, since everyone is probably following the same leads.  
The most ferocious gunshots come from the warehouse – not only on the roofs, but also some windows and doors. He has seen some response from another warehouse on his right, a container on his left, and maybe something coming from a boat on the port. Himself is hidden behind a container, and he hopes the other shooters will distract the rogues enough to give him the opportunity to approach. His target is at a party on a boat not far away, but right now he has nothing to fear: the rogues are his best guard. Curt had hoped to infiltrate the party itself, but the security was too high and the place too small for him to mingle.  
He hears the gunshots coming closer on his left, and soon a breathless form comes to a stop next to him.

“Well, fancy seeing you here, love.”

His heart skips a beat, and for a second the shooting evaporates around him. When he realized there were other agents, something in him was hoping that _he_ might be one of them, while something else was fearing the exact same thing.

His plan was just to briefly look at him, but his glance stays longer than expected on his face as he says: “Owen.”

Despite the dark, he can see the scar on his forehead, the one he’s stitched himself, and he’s almost certain the hair is a bit shorter. The smile is still the same – crooked, teasing – and the eyes have the same brightness. Not as quickly as he would have liked, he goes back to charging his gun.  
Some bullets ricochet next to them and, though hidden, they both have the reflex to lower their heads.

“As much as I would love to chit-chat and catch up with you,” says Owen while checking his own gun is loaded, “I was planning before this pleasant encounter to try and snitch on them to take some of them down, and I’m afraid I can’t change my plans.” He looks at Curt and, still smiling, asks: “You cover for me?”

Curt nods – he doesn’t trust what he could say right now.

“Great! And when I come back, we can talk about the old times, alright?” Owen passes by him and, just before turning the corner of the container, he turns back and adds: “Because, unlike some other _liars_ over here, when I say I am coming back, _I actually am_.”

And, with a wink, he is gone.

 

***

 

He meets back with Owen on the other side of the warehouse. He has managed to make his way through to the harbor with the combined effort of all the agents around here to take down the rogues, who eventually found themselves outnumbered, and the one who remained ran away. They would probably resurface later, but for now, they are safe.  
Curt could have gone and found a boat by himself, but he somehow feels compelled to wait for Owen.  
He finally sees him appear on the other side of the building, but he is not alone: with him comes the French agent he’s already met. His mood gets a bit gloomier.  
It’s not like he has hoped anything would happen between him and Owen. It’s not even like he has _wanted_ it. But he doesn’t know her enough to trust her, and he’s afraid she might come in between his and Owen’s dynamic.  
_Work_ dynamic.

“Oh, hey, there you are!” salutes Owen. “This is…”  
“Anna. We’ve met. I’m Kirk,” he says, watching Owen, though the words seem directed to her.  
“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she says with a slight French accent. “You always seem to know everyone, Brian,” she teases Owen with a smile.  
“Oh, well, I’ve been places, you know,” he winks at her.

Curt feels somehow comforted by the fact that she doesn’t know Owen’s real name – or maybe it’s just a ploy, like he just did himself?

“That was a nice job you did back there, love,” Owen says to him. “Taking down those two rooftop guys was a big help.”  
Curt just shrugs. “Let’s go.” He starts walking toward the water, head inside his shoulder. He should just have gone to find a boat by himself.  
“How about that one?” asks Owen, pointing toward a big bright blue yacht.  
“Too flashy. And big,” retorts Curt.  
“Right. You like to be discreet,” says Owen in a playful tone. Then, Curt hears him add, to Anna: “Doesn’t he always act like he swallowed a spy textbook? So much he’s annoying, sometimes.”

Anna laughs. Curt walks faster, leaving as much space as he can between him and them. Let them make jokes: he has a mission to complete.  
He notices a small boat at the beginning of a pier. There should be just enough room for three – though he briefly considers leaving Anna on land –, and it has no engine, so they’ll have to row, but at least it’s _discreet_ , just as needed.  
He goes down toward it and starts to undo the knots.

“Oh, great, you successfully found the most boring boat in this harbor. Now we can accost this VIP party looking like peasants.”  
“You can find your own boat if you don’t like this one,” he snaps back, glaring at him.

Hands in his pocket, Owen smiles and shrugs.

“That will be perfect,” says Anna while climbing on it. “Thanks, Kirk.”  
“Well, if the lady says so,” admits Owen, following her. “Oh, oars? You really went all the way back to the Middle Ages. There’s only one pair of it, love. You want me to take them?”  
Curt unties the last knot and climbs in at least. “Only if you row as fast as you talk.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and sits himself at the front, taking the oars and starting to row, forcing Owen and Anna to collapse on the other bench. He wishes he didn’t have to face them, but the boat is made that way. He just tries to look anywhere but at their huddled figures.

“Oh, okay, lead us all the way, Kirk. You really can do everything, can you? Look at how easily he rows,” whispers Owen to Anna, loud enough for Curt to hear.

Curt grinds his teeth and doesn’t say a thing. He wonders now why he was fearing to meet Owen again. Clearly what happened in Paris was nothing but a fling to him, probably lost in the mist of countless other flings. There was nothing to worry about: Owen is still Owen, and nothing between them has ever been _special_.  
Thinking that, even for a second, was stupid.  
He doesn’t listen, but he can hear them chatting and softly laughing on the other end of the small boat. They seem like they’ve forgotten him, but he can also feel Owen’s gaze on him most of the time. If they’re talking about him, then he definitely doesn’t want to hear what they’re saying.  
A few minutes later, the yacht comes in view and, in front of him, the whispers stop. Himself stops rowing in the shadow of another boat.

“What’s the plan, now?” he asks.  
“I was sure you’d already thought that out,” answers Owen, “so I didn’t think much about it. But I can, if you want.”  
“I’ve thought about it,” whispers Anna. “I should go on board, pretend I fell in the water or something, and distract the men. That way, you two can go and scour the boat looking for the blueprints.  
“That won’t work,” say both him and Owen at the same time before exchanging a glance – surprised on Curt’s side, accomplice on Owen’s.  
“I’m sorry, love,” continues Owen toward Anna, putting his hand on her shoulder, “but the one we need to distract is the prime minister, and, no offence, you don’t have what it takes – and I’m not talking skill-wise,” he concludes with a wink.  
“Oh,” she says.  
He then turns toward Curt and, eying him from head to toe, he says: “Kirk, I’m sorry but you do look a bit too gloomy for that. So how about I go, and you look for the blueprints with Anna?"

Curt nods. It’s not like he wants to spend time with her, but he also doesn’t want Owen to spend time with her.

“Okay. Could you help me up on that boat, love?” asks Owen to him. “I’ll jump in the water from there.”

Curt stands up while Owen makes his way toward him, trying not to tip the boat over. Owen hands him his gun before he gets close to him, and Curt puts it next to his own. He then joins his hands to make a step. Owen puts his hand on his shoulder, as if to steady himself, and whispers in his ear: “Careful, love, your jealousy is showing.”

Curt knows protesting would only make him sound guilty, so he just stares at him.

 

***

 

“He’s something, that Brian, uh?” asks Anna in a whisper while they’re looking in the under bridge of the boat for the blueprints. “How long have you known him?”  
“I’ve met him a couple of time,” mumbles Curt.  
“Yes, same. He’s always so charming with everyone. I know it’s probably just an act, but still, it’s nice, you know.”

Curt groans noncommittally, looking though a drawer. He doesn’t want to talk about Owen. He doesn’t want to _think_ about Owen.

“He talks about you a lot, anyway,” continues Anna.  
“Yeah, probably saying how _annoying_ I am.”

Anna laugh. “Actually, more like saying how impressed he was by your dedication to the job. He said you took a bullet for him, once?”

“It’s part of the job.”

He really doesn’t want to dwell on anything including Owen, what he said or what he did. And yet, he still feels curious.

“Still, he seems to admire you.”

Curt can’t help but snort. Owen, admiring anyone else but himself? That’s absurd.  
The look around the place in silence for a few minutes, then Curt’s watch beeps. He stops it quickly.

“He’s got the blueprints. The man had it on him. He’ll meet us back at the warehouse. Let’s go.”

 

***

 

Almost an hour goes as they wait for Owen, and Anna tries to make small talk, but she quickly stops when she realizes Curt doesn’t feel like it. She eventually sits on a box, but Curt can’t stop pacing. What if something had happened to Owen? What it he’d been caught? What if they did torture him? What if he never came back? He suddenly wishes he had been the one to go on that boat. That way, he could have made sure everything was going according to plan and he wouldn’t have to wait for someone else to do his job for him.  
Eventually, a form appears in the moonlight. He instantaneously recognize the lanky silhouette with the slick-back hair and stops pacing. Anna raises her eyes and gets up to stand next to him.

“How did it go?” he asks as soon as Owen’s close enough to hear.

He hears the zip of a jacket and, a second later, Owen is waving a set of papers in the air.

“Swimmingly, I’d say – pun intended.”

Though it’s dark, he can perfectly see the wink that comes with the sentence.

“Nobody saw you? Or tried to stop you?”  
“Nope. Well, our man insisted that I stayed the night with him on the boat but, you know, all wet in that weather, I wouldn’t interrupt their party. Though I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded if I’d stayed to dry my clothes,” he laughs.  
Curt senses Anna shifting uncomfortably next to him, so he asks: “So what do we do now?”  
“What kind of question is that? It’s the New Year. We party!” says Owen.  
“I mean about the blueprints.”  
“Oh, that? Well, love, I got them, so how about I keep them? No offence to you or your abilities, but my boss will probably share it with your bosses if they ask nicely.”  
“Well I’m not sure that–” starts Anna bitterly while shaking her head.  
“Behind you!” yells Curt while taking out his gun to shoot at some point behind Owen.  
“Curt, what the–”  
Curt throws him his gun and pushes him on the side, with Anna, against the wall of the warehouse. “You were followed.”  
“Fuck. I really thought you were gonna shoot me, man.”  
“I’d love to, but not right now.”

He hears Owen laugh briefly behind him as he loads his gun.

“I’m going ahead. I think I got them, but just in case. Cover for me.”  
“I’ll go from the other side,” whispers Anna in return.

Curt nods.

As she leaves swiftly, he briefly turns to Owen and, looking at him in the eyes, he says: “Don’t let the blueprints be taken back.”

Owen starts to smile but, when he sees the seriousness on Curt’s face, he just nods.

“Be careful,” hears Curt behind him as he leaves.

In a few minutes, he’s at the end of the warehouse and he sees a silhouette trying to escape on a rowing boat. It’s hard to adjust his shot in the darkness, but he takes his time and, when he shoots, the small boat stops moving. He hears a gunshot behind him but, when he turns, it’s just to see Owen walking toward him, gun in hand and smile on the face.

“Got that one for you, love.”

Curt nods. He walks toward Owen and, spontaneously, they position themselves back to back. Motionless and silent for a few minutes, they look around them and wait.

“I think we got them all,” finally whispers Owen.  
“But we shouldn’t stay too long around here. If they followed you, others may have.”  
“Okay. Let’s go.”

Curt turns toward him.

“How about Anna?”  
Owen shrugs. “I don’t care about her. Do you?”  
“She’s an ally.”  
“She’s a spy. She’ll find her own way out of this. Plus, she was going to cause troubles for those blueprints.”  
“I’m not letting her behind without a clue,” asserts Curt. It pains him to vouch for that woman he doesn’t like, but he knows he shouldn’t leave her behind.  
Owen cocks his head. “Oh, Curt. Always doing the right thing, huh?”  
“Well, sorry for being _annoying_ because I’ve _swallowed a spy textbook_.”  
“Come on, Curt, that was a joke.”  
“Yeah, it was hilarious.”  
“So now _you’re_ mad at _me_?” Owen holds out his hand between them. “Okay, we’re not having this conversation right now.”  
“Having what conversation?” asks Anna behind them.  
“Whether we were going to find you or whether we waited here,” answers Owen without missing a beat. “But now you’re here, so that’s great, let’s go!”

He starts to walk and Curt and Anna have to follow.

“I heard two gunshots,” asks Anna to Curt. “Did you get them all?”  
“Yeah. Apparently there wasn’t any more of them.”  
“Good. Where are we going?”  
“Away. If they found us, others can. Ow–Brian will probably steal a car for us, as always.”  
“Come on, I’ll drop you off,” says Owen in front of them. “Just tell me where.”

Anna eventually doesn’t prove to be too difficult when it gets to the documents, even if she tries stealing them by getting a little bit too handsy on Owen. He stops her with a wink by saying “Come on, love, if you wanted to touch, you just had to ask.”  
When they’re finally alone, Owen drives in silence along a few streets before finally parking.

“Where are we?” asks Curt when he goes out of the car.  
“Don’t know exactly. I just wanted to get rid of this car. Come over here.”

Curt approaches carefully and, when he’s close enough, Owen catches his left wrist and pushes buttons on his watch.

“There.”  
“What did you do?” asks Curt, immediately looking at his watch.  
“Relax, I just deactivated you tracker. Come on, now. Let’s go to my hotel.”

Curt stops dead in his tracks.

“I don’t want to go to your hotel.”  
“Well, do as you please, but I have the documents. Would you want to go back to Cynthia empty-handed? Also, we need to talk.”  
“About what?” asks Owen grumpily, but still following him.

Owen turns toward him and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you seriously asking? Oh, I get it. Is Paris gonna be like Kiev, now?”  
“What?”  
“First time we met, when we got that Russian woman, Aurora–”  
“Olga.”  
“Yeah, Olga, whatever. You told me you already knew her and her husband from Kiev, and when I asked you about it, you said ‘what happens in Kiev stays in Kiev’, or some shit like that. So, is it gonna be the same thing with Paris?”  
Curt sighs. “I’m not talking about that in the middle of the street.”  
“Okay, then let’s go to my hotel.”

Curt knows it is a terrible idea, and yet he follows him.  
He has the blueprints, after all.

 

***

 

As soon as the door closes behind him, he regrets his choice.

“We’re not in the street anymore. Let’s talk,” says Owen in front of him.  
“That was a mistake,” says Curt immediately. “Paris. What happened in Paris. That was a mistake, and that will never happen again.”  
“That was not what you said at the time,” smiles Owen.  
“Well, it shouldn’t have happened. At all. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I shouldn’t have let you drag me into it.”  
“Excuse me? _You_ were the one who kissed me first.”  
“No, _you_ were.”  
“What? In the Chinese man hotel room? You’ve got to–”  
“No. In Berlin. The first time we met.”

Owen just looks at him with frowned eyebrows.

“One night, I was leaving your room,” insists Curt. “And you kissed me. For… pretense. Cover. Whatever.”  
“Wow. I had forgotten that.”  
“Well I hadn’t. Fuck!” Curt puts the palms of his hands in front of his eyes. What is he doing? “I shouldn’t even be here. And you were flirting with Anna earlier, and you were ready to abandon her. Is that what you’re gonna do with me too?”  
“Last time I checked, it was you who left a hotel room in the middle of the night.”  
“I left a note!”  
“Yeah, that said ‘sorry’! What was I supposed to do with that?”  
“I don’t know, throw it away? Bury it in the mess that you call _your bag_? Burn it? Do the same thing with it you did with all of your lovers’ notes? Cause I’m not the first one, huh?”  
“What are you trying to say? Yes, of course I’ve slept with other people, and other agents, but you’ve done it too!  
“I haven–”  
“Oh, come on! That Ian dude? You totally fucked him. And right when I was waiting for you in the car, thinking you might be dead, I bet! I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was what was happening, right?”  
“It’s not–”  
“And Kiev? _Kiev_? Don’t play the innocent card with me, Curt. I never made you do anything you didn’t want to. And if I recall correctly, you _did_ want everything that happened that night. And now _you’re_ mad at _me_? Because I was casually talking with another agent? That’s insane! _I_ should be mad at _you_! _You_ were the one who left _without a single explanation_.”  
“Because that shouldn’t have happened!” yells Curt, before lowering his voice as he repeats: “It shouldn’t have happened. It did, and I’ll bear the consequences of that, but it shouldn’t have, and it will never, ever, happen again.”

Owen, who has apparently calmed down, looks at him for a few seconds and says:

“Okay.”  
“We’re agents, for fuck’s sake! We’re not supposed to do that! We can’t do that! And if anyone learns about it, we’re dead! I’m dead! And not just because we’re agents! But because…” He sighs. “I haven’t told anyone about it. And I hope you haven’t either. And we won’t. Ever. And it won’t happen again. Ever. It can’t. I have a girlfriend.”

Owen raises his eyebrows.

“Really? You, a girlfriend?”  
“Yeah,” answers Curt defiantly.  
Owen stares at him for a few seconds, then asks: “Do you love her?”  
“She’s nice, she has pretty blond hair and she likes me.”  
Owen laughs. “Seriously, Curt? I’ve heard people talk with more passion about their dog.”  
“I don’t care what you think.”  
“Oh, do you now? Because you did seem in a terrible mood all night because of that joke I made about you.”  
“I was focused. I don’t care about your joke. I don’t care about you.”

Silence lingers between them. Curt’s stomach, like his fist, is only knots. He kinda feels like throwing up. Kinda feels like running away. Kinda feels like yelling. _What Owen thinks doesn’t matter_ , he keeps telling himself.

“Wow. That was harsh,” finally says Owen in a low voice. “But that’s fine,” he adds with his smile back. “If that’s what you think, that’s fine. We can just… go on with our lives, and pretend like that never happened – like you had apparently planned to do, with pretty-blond-hair. But let me just ask you one question, Curt: why did you come here? Why did you follow me into this hotel room?” he asks while taking a step toward him.  
Curt tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “The blueprints,” he finally says in a hoarse voice. “You have the blueprints.”  
“You want the blueprints? Okay,” says Owen while opening his jacket. “Take them.” He hands the paper in front of him. “I’m giving them to you. Free of charge. And asking for nothing in return. If that’s what you want, take them, and bring them back to Cynthia, like the good little dog you are.”

More as a reflex than anything else, Curt grabs the paper, his eyes still in Owen’s.

“Why are you still here? You wanted the blueprints, you got the blueprints. These are the real ones, I swear. Look!” He opens his jacket wide for Curt to see its emptiness.

Curt still can’t move.

“Why are you here, Curt? For real? You could have left, at any time. The door is not locked. You could have left, you could have turned your tracker back on, you could have refused to follow me. I didn’t _force_ you to do anything. You have the blueprints. You have no reason to be here. So why are you?”

Now, Owen is only a few feet from him, still glaring at him –not with anger, or hatred, more like… curiosity? Almost… kindness?  
But, despites the lump in his throat and the knots in all of his body, Curt doesn’t want to admit that, if he’s here, if he followed him all the way through, despite the jokes, despite the flirt, despite what everything his spy skills told him to do, that’s because, when he heard his voice earlier, that was the first time he felt good since…  
Since August.  
Since Paris.  
Since the last time he heard that voice.  
And knowing that breaks him as much as it unties everything in him.

“Why are you here, Curt?” whispers Owen while slowly cupping his cheek in his hand.

Curt closes his eyes and exhales slowly.  
He’s still not ready to admit anything. Not to himself, not to anyone. But if he could just, like, _not think_ , for a moment, that would be really nice.  
So, eyes still closed, he puts his hand around Owen’s and squeezes it, intertwining their fingers. And when he feels Owen’s breath on his skin, he closes the distance and kisses him.

“Happy New Year, Curt,” whispers Owen in a breath.

 

***

 

“Do you really have a girlfriend?”

Curt sighs and, for a second, stops caressing the hand wrapped around his middle.  
With the warmth of Owen’s body behind him, he really doesn’t want to think – or talk – about that.

“Yeah,” he finally sighs, shifting as if to get out of bed.

Owen’s arm stops him, pulling him back in. He doesn’t resist. And when Owen’s lips fall on his neck, he relaxes, closes his eyes and exhale.

“What’s her name?” asks Owen’s breath on his skin.  
“Sally.”

If Curt focuses on Owen’s skin against his, on his breath against his neck, on his fingers against his abdomen, he can’t even see Sally’s face. His own body is acutely aware of the other man behind him, of the warmth of his skin, of the calluses on his fingers, of the tension in his muscles, of how he breaths, how is heart beats, of each and every one of his tiny little moves. He has never felt more awake, and yet it seems like he could fall asleep right now and never wake up.

“Is it serious?”  
“What?”  
“You and her. Is it serious?”  
Without thinking, he says: “I was planning to propose.”  
Owen raises on his elbow. “Seriously?!”

Curt shrugs without looking at him.

“Does she know that you’re–”

Curt briskly turns toward him.

“That I’m what? A… friend of Dorothy? A spy? No, and no. Who do you think I am?”  
“I don’t know, Curt. Who are you?” asks Owen, caressing Curt’s forehead with his thumb.

Curt’s not sure he wants to answer that question, so he just pulls him down and kisses him.

But, after a few seconds, Owen pulls back. “I mean it, Curt. I don’t really know you.” He drops back on the mattress, he head nestling against Curt’s shoulder. “I mean, I’ve caught a few stuff, working with you, but… I want to know who you are. Who is the real Curt?”  
Curt shrugs and avoid his gaze. “I’m an agent.”  
“You’re not defined by your job, Curt.”  
“What if I am?” He turns his head toward Owen and forces a smile. “And you, who are you?”  
Owen smiles back and rubs Curt’s neck with his hand. “I totally see what you’re doing here, love, but fine. I’ll start. I… grew up in the suburbs of London. I got two older brothers, who saw fit to use me as a punching bag when I grew up, which was lovely, as you can imagine –” Curt snorts “– then my parents couldn’t afford sending me – or any of my brothers, for that matters – to college, so I did a few odd jobs and finally enrolled into MI6 at 21. I… like whisky, though I prefer beer, I used to like crime novels as a kid but not anymore since I’m living inside of them, and I would like to have a dog, but since that’s not really possible in this line of work, I make do with my neighbor’s cat who sneaks a little too often into my flat.”  
“Why did you do it?” asks Curt while absentmindedly caressing his back.  
“Do what?”  
“Enroll into MI6.”  
Owen shifts in the too small bed. “Well… I didn’t come form a very wealthy family, so the idea of traveling, going places, wearing tux, being an insider, all that, did sound appealing, I guess. And also, all of that reading of crime and adventures stories as a kid made me want to be the hero, you know? To save the world, in some way. Take down the villain, rescue the damsel in distress, get all the glory, that kind of shit.” He laughs.

Curt laughs too, softly.

“Okay, your turn, now,” insists Owen. “What about you? Your family, your pets, all of that?”  
Curt takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling. “Well, my family’s just my mom and I. My dad left when she was pregnant. She worked a lot when I was a kid, you know, to be able to raise me. She did good. I mean, she did her best. I couldn’t go to college either, but… she wanted what was best for me.”  
“You seem to like her.”  
“She’s my mom,” Curt sighs. “Sometimes she’s insufferable, she always wants to protect me, and she’s always bugging me for grandkids, but, you know… she means well. When I started working at the CIA, I… I made sure she didn’t have to bust her ass off anymore. I bought her a house, a couple years ago. The furniture she chose was so… ugly,” he winces.

Owen laughs.

“But, you know, it was what she wanted, so…” Curt shrugs. “And she knows I’m a spy. I didn’t tell her, but when I bought the house she said there was no way a businessman would earn that much money, and that scar on my hand was definitely not caused by a fall down the stairs. So now she insists that I send her postcards every time I’m on a mission.”  
“Do you?”  
“Yeah. When I get home.”  
“That’s halfway between the good son and the sneaky bastard,” laughs Owen.

Curt shrugs, more relaxed this time.

“Does she know… Sally?” asks Owen.  
Curt’s smile disappears and he sighs. “Yeah. She loves her. She’s already planning the wedding seating chart.”  
“She sounds more committed to this relationship than you.”  
Curt turns toward him and frowns. “I’m committed. I was planning to propose.”  
Owen smiles and strokes his belly. “Curt. You have more kindness in your voice when you talk about your mother than when you talk about your girlfriend. Also, if you are that committed, how do you explain the fact that you’re naked in my bed?”  
Curt sighs as he catches his hand. “Because _you’re_ the sneaky bastard,” he whispers between his teeth.  
Owen laughs and kisses his clavicle. “And you keep talking about _planning_ to propose, but never proposing in itself. Are you postponing it?”  
Curt lets go of his hand and sighs again. “And you? Any girlfriend? Or boyfriend?”  
“Well, that depends.”  
“On what? The city you’re in?”  
Owen pulls himself away from Curt’s body and looks him in the eyes. “Nah. You.”  
Curt’s face closes and he stops playing with Owen’s fingers. Once again, his eyes find the ceiling. “What are you talking about? We’re spies. That can’t happen.”  
“And yet here you are,” whispers Owen while pulling him back in an embrace.

Curt doesn’t resist.

“That can’t happen,” he repeats. “We’re spies. Tomorrow I’ll probably get a very angry call from Cynthia, you’ll go back to… your neighbor’s cat, or whatever, and nothing says we’ll ever see each other again. And I’ve got Sally.”  
“Oh, come on, love. Sally’s not an issue. It’s not like you love her. You can leave her. And seeing each other again can easily be arranged.”

Again, he has that cocky smile, that sparkle in his eyes, that hair that can’t seem to be tamed and, with his hands wandering on his body, Curt just feels like he can believe him.

Owen starts kissing his jaw and, between breathes, says: “Did you really think we luckily stumbled upon each other tonight?”

Despite the difficulty of the thing, Curt pushes him back, a hand on his shoulder.

“What do you mean?”  
“Well, I may not be able to contact you but, with a few words to the right people, I can pretty much make sure you’ll be where I’ll be.”  
“Did you plan _all_ that?” Curt’s tone is almost angry.  
“Not _all_ , no. I guess I just… wanted some explanation on your sudden departure in Paris, and I kinda wanted to see you again. So, you know, I gave a little push here and there, just to make sure you were in Istanbul tonight. Not that I’m complaining about what happened after,” he winks.  
Just to delay his answer, Curt pulls Owen back against him. That puts a lot of things into perspective. “Did you push and pull the other times too?”  
“Nah, that was just luck. Apart from that time in Russia, with Jesus, of course – but you already knew that.”

Another silence.

“Why?” finally asks Curt.  
“Why what?”  
“Why did you want to see me again? I mean… if you just wanted sex, there might be easier ways to get it – easier people.”

Owen unburies his head from Curt’s shoulder.

“I like you, Curt. I mean, you’re slightly hard-headed at times, and sometimes you can be a real pain in the ass – and I mean figuratively –, and yes, your perfect agent behavior has a tendency to get on my nerves, but–”  
“When you put it like that, I really seem like a treat.”  
“– but I admire the way you run into fire without any damn consideration for your own life, though it can be really scary, how collected you are in the face of danger, and even how you say you’re fine when even my grandmother could see you’re not – and she’s blind. I like how grumpy you get when you pretend not to be affected by things that clearly affect you, and I like your laugh, though I’ve seldom heard it. Oh, and also, you’ve got a great ass,” concludes Owen as he pinches it.

Curt laughs and pushes his hand.

“See? Cute laugh.”  
“I’m not cute,” mumbles Curt.  
“And cute grumpy mood,” whispers Owen in his neck.

Curt pulls him against him and hugs him tightly, burying his hand in Owen’s hair, his nose in Owen’s neck, and entangling their legs.

“I kinda like you too,” he whispers in return.

 

***

 

Curt is awakened when Owen shifts against him, and his first reflex is to pull him pack in. Still half asleep, he feels Owen’s laugh on his skin.

“Not that I’m not enjoying myself right now, love, but I have places to be.”

He lets go of him immediately, realizing where he is and what is happening – what _has been_ happening.

“You should get up too,” adds Owen while passing over him to get up – his side of the bed is stuck against the wall.

Curt feels his hands linger on him, and when they’re gone, the cold of the winter comes back to his bones. Wrapping himself in the blanket, he sits on the edge on the bed.  
Owen is picking up clothes from where they left them on the floor and putting them on. Curt watches absentmindedly

“Very sadly, I’ve got to go back today, now that the mission has been completed and we’ve got the blueprints. Here, these are yours,” he says while handing him his pants.  
Curt catches them, and Owen continues: “You’ll probably get the same message once you set your tracker back on, I guess. Unless you have something else to do here.” He pulls off the shirt he was putting on and throws it toward Curt. “That one’s yours too, love.”

Curt jerks awake at both the mention of the tracker and the clothe landing on his face.

“Shit,” he swears while getting up in a hurry and imitating Owen in his search for clothes. “Fuck, Cynthia will probably kill me,” he mumbles while buttoning his shirt. He finds his trousers abandoned next to the blueprints who fell to the floor, and swears again. “Shit shit shit shit.”

When he gets up, looking for his shoes – and socks, where the fuck are his socks? Did they go under the bed? –, Owen catches him by the arm.

“Curt.”

Curt turns to him and finds his smile and calmness somewhat exasperating.

“Five minutes more or less won’t change anything on Cynthia’s madness. Calm down.”  
“Sometimes five minutes means the difference between life and death.”  
“We’re talking about your boss.”  
“Precisely.”  
Owen smiles and briefly presses his fingers against his arms. “Then I don’t want to be responsible for your death.”

Curt stares at him for a few more seconds, then goes back to gathering his stuff.  
He’s ready a little more than a minute later, and finds himself awkwardly facing Owen.

“I’m gonna go.”

Owen places his hand against his cheek. “Take care of yourself, love.”  
Curt nods, trying not to linger too much. “You too.”

But he must still linger too much, because Owen pulls him in for a kiss. They both end up breathless, eyes closed, forehead against forehead.

“I must really go,” whispers Curt.  
“Okay,” answers Owen.  
“Cynthia will kill me,” adds Curt after a few seconds.  
Owen opens his eyes and strokes his cheek. “You know, Curt, you’re a much better agent and a more interesting person than you seem to think.”

Curt’s jaw clenches, but he does not withdraw. There’s something in him that terribly wants to believe Owen, but for the most part, he just wonders what Cynthia will do to him this time. Finally, he presses Owen’s fingers between his own and take a step back.

After a quick smiles, Owen starts fumbling behind him. “Here, take the blueprints.”

Curt looks at the papers before him and shakes his head.

“Nah. Keep them. You were the one to get them.”  
“You sure?”  
“I’m already dead,” answers Curt with the attempt of a smile.

He then takes a couple of steps back toward the door and opens it, finally letting go of Owen’s eyes.

“Curt?” calls Owen hen he’s already in the hallway.

He turns back.

“We’ll meet again very soon.” Owen smiles his crooked smile, and that’s the last image Curt takes with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were postcards even a thing in the fifties? Let's pretend it was.
> 
> (Owen's neighbour's cat is very much inspired by my own cat, who believes every house in the neighbourhood is his house and goes around asking for food and love everywhere) (and be assured he's very well fed and loved here in this house)


	8. 1954

1954 is the best year of Curt’s life.  
If, for the first few days, Cynthia killing him actually seems like a possibility, it changes pretty quickly.

February, Roma. He realizes new years eve wasn’t just a very realistic dream.

March, Buenos Aires. He learns all of Owen’s scars.

May, Tokyo. Sally is a distant memory, and he’s never felt more alive than with Owen’s smile on his skin.

June, Mexico City. He’s learnt that if he jokes with Sandra on the third floor and brings donuts to Carl on the seventh, him too can turn the odds in his favor. Owen’s surprised expression is the best reward he’s ever gotten.

July, Prague. Barb complains that he turns off his tracker way too often, and Cynthia gives him hell for it, but he realizes he doesn’t care.

September, Cairo. They almost lose their suspect during a stakeout because Owen’s breath on his neck _swears_ that he won’t come out before long.

November, Tbilissi. He pretends he’s as surprised as Cynthia is when she tries to understand why him and Owen have been working together so often. He’s not sure she believes him, but she lets him go.

December, Warsaw. He tells his mother it really is a _shame_ they can’t spend Christmas together because of his job. It’s not – though there’s one too many bomb.

 

So when, in January 1955, the KGB gets to him, he just thinks that karma really took its time.  
It is only supposed to be a simple protection mission in Bucarest, just making sure one of their American dignitary made a safe trip. Owen isn’t even there – they can’t spend all their missions together, it’s suspicious enough as it is.  
But, maybe he’s gotten too much used to having Owen behind him, maybe the feeling of power that’s been growing in him since that night in Istanbul has made him reckless, maybe the others were just better than him.  
Whatever it is, he finds himself tied to a chair in a dark basement.  
He’s more used to being on the other side of the interrogation, but it’s not the first time he is in this situation. This time, though, he feels he won’t get out of it as easily as the others.  
They took his watch, probably destroyed it, and no sound or light get to him – except when there’s _one of them_ with him. They’re also pretty professional when it comes to _interrogating_. They didn’t present themselves as the KGB, but he’s pretty sure they are: the usual rogues wouldn’t act that way; they’d be much more messy.  
But he’s a professional too, and he makes sure they get nothing from him: not a name, not a hint on his mission, nothing. It hurts like hell, and he passes out more and more often, but he refuses to let them win.  
He doesn’t know how much time passes. Days? Weeks? Month? He’s pretty sure the only reason they keep him alive is because they desperately want something from him.  
At first, he tried looking for ways to escape, but the possibility of it has gotten so thin it doesn’t even exist anymore. He doesn’t even think about being rescued. Cynthia wouldn’t waste any resources on him, and it’s not like this mission was of the utmost importance anyway.

  
So, as time passes, the only deliverance he waits for is death.

  
Some part of him longs for it. The part that is hurt, that can’t feel his fingers or toes, that can barely open his swollen eyes; the part that has stopped counting his broken ribs, or the intervals between which he coughs blood. That part of him has made peace with death a long time ago, and is thankful to have had at least one perfect year in his life.  
That part tells him that sure, his mother will be sad, but she’ll bury herself in DIY projects and her clubs’ activities to deal with it and, though she may kidnap some neighborhood children to adopt them, she’ll end up fine. It also tells him that Owen won’t take long to get over him. It is the same part that has kept telling him, throughout this year, that he was only one of Owen’s many, because, after all, wasn’t he so charming with everyone? Didn’t he call everyone “love”? He’s pushed away that voice all year long, but now, in his darkest hours, he hopes – he wants; _he knows_ – that voice is right: there’s a good chance Owen will shrug off his disappearance like a winter coat and will continue just fine without him: flirting with another one, kissing another one, smiling _that smile_ to another one, putting his hands in another one’s hair and his lips on another one’s neck.

  
That part of him just wants to go as quickly and easily as possible, because he’s sure no one will look for him or regret him – or not for long. He’ll die a hero, take his secrets to the tomb – _all_ of his secrets –, and everything will _finally_ be over.  
But there is also another part – much smaller, but here nevertheless – who wants to believe everything Owen said, who wants every single one of his words and promises to be true. That part of him, which appeared over the past year, desires to fight for life, for a future he’s caught a glimpse of, a future where he can be _happy_ , where he can be _himself – where he can be with Owen_.

  
He knows that dream, that _possible future_ , is stupid, childish, and has zero chance of happening. And yet, it’s still there, thin as a string, but keeping him alive day after day, hour after hour.  
And, as everything else – the mission, his mother, his fear of Cynthia, that childish desire which made him want to be a spy and which has always pushed him up to this day – fades away, he still hangs to Owen’s voice and smile. When he feels like drowning, they pull him above water, and when he’s giving up, they give him the strength to resist – even for just one more minute, one more second. Sometimes it’s all it takes. One second of Owen’s smile.  
He’d just want to see him run his hand through his too long hair one last time, just for an instant; he’d just want to hear him call him “love” – just once, just for a second.  
Just to make sure this was all real.  
Just to make sure he did at least one thing right in his life.  
And this _just once more_ is all that stands between him and death.

 

***

 

When he hears Owen’s voice, he’s sure it’s just in his mind, once again; a distant memory, a fantasy played once too often to hold him up.

“Come back to me, love.”

He can’t open his eyes at this point. He can’t move much of anything, to be honest. He’s so weak he’s been untied for some time now, because he can’t run away or defend himself anyway.  
And the warmth of a hand on his cheek – that’s probably just death cupping him, telling him it’s okay to go, accompanying him with one last signal, a little brighter, a little more realistic than the others, just to tell him it’s okay to let go now, he can leave in peace.  
A smile forces his way on his cracked lips, enjoying this last moment, this last fantasy that means everything is finally over.  
He puts the last of his strength in opening one of his eyes, and Owen’s face above him is just the last encouragement to give up the fight.

“Hey there, handsome,” he manages to say with his sore throat. Every word pains him, but since they’re the last he’ll ever say, and they’re for Owen – for this _vision_ of Owen –, he can handle the pain – one last time.

He closes his eyes with a sigh.  
The hand on his cheek slides through his hair and he’s pretty sure he feels lips on his forehead.

“Fuck, Curt, you’re alive,” says Owen’s broken voice.

That’s the last thing he hears – the last thing he feels.  
And he feels content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me : okay but I have no idea what spies actually do  
> Also me : you should research it  
> Me : ... WHO CARES I'M ONLY HERE FOR THE DRAMA
> 
> (and that's the story of why this story is probably pretty urealistic)
> 
> Also, I saw Arcade Fire twice this weekd and the amount of regrets I have is none.


	9. Hell

The afterlife is much more bright – and much more painful – than he would have imagined.  
But, truth be told, he’s probably in hell, given how he’s lived his life. He shouldn’t be surprised.  
He’s more surprised to see that afterlife exists after all. Maybe if he’d believed in God, he wouldn’t be in hell.  
When he succeeds in opening his eyes, he sees the face of Susan. It only lasts a second before he closes them again – he can’t hold it anymore.  
But after all, it’s only logical that hell has its own Cynthia.

 

***

 

Now hell is very dark, and its sound is very blank. It feels like a radio not set on any channel. With more beeping sounds.  
He’s afraid he’ll actually see Cynthia this time, and he doesn’t feel ready for that yet, so he doesn’t open his eyes. He just shifts, in hope the pain will go away, but it only makes it worse. He groans.  
He hears some shuffling next to him, then Susan’s voice saying: “Are you awake?”  
Answering seems like too much trouble, so he doesn’t.

 

***

 

This time, it’s the yells that wake him. He can’t make out what they say, but they seem both very close and very muffled. He doesn’t try to understand them, but something in him recognizes Owen’s voice – he always did recognize it everywhere, after all, no matter how much of an accent he took or in what language he spoke. Is Owen in his hell? That doesn’t match.  
Unless Owen is mad at him in this place.  
And he seems mad.  
Seeing Owen looking at him with disgust is probably the hardest thing he could endure.  
That does seem fitting, then.

 

***

 

The pain is almost supportable now.  
It still feels like hell – ah, he can still make jokes – but now it seems like moving won’t kill him on the spot.  
He tries again to open his eyes.  
Hell Susan is still there, and they stare at each other for a long time.

“Cynthia will want to talk to you,” finally says Hell Susan after what seems like an eternity but probably was only seconds.

Curt closes his eyes.  
He can’t take that just yet.  
Hell Cynthia will have to wait.

 

***

 

“I’ve come all the fucking way to this fucking city because I’ve heard he was awake, so now you better let me in and he’d better be fucking awake, otherwise tell me what good is your goddamn diploma supposed to be?”

Oh no. Hell Cynthia is here.  
She seems as pissed as the real Cynthia.

“And I hope you didn’t let anyone get in his room, otherwise I can fucking guarantee you your career will be as short as me.”

If there’s an answer, he doesn’t hear it. There’s just, a few seconds after, the sound of a door opening and closing – and still, always, all those beeping sounds.

“Susan, wake him up.”

If Hell Cynthia is anything like the real Cynthia, he’d better wake up before she has to wake him.  
So he opens his eyes.  
It’s much more easier than the last times.  
So is keeping them open.  
Everything around him is very white, like the last times, except Hell Susan’s head in the corner of his vision, and Hell Cynthia’s angry face towering over him.  
She looks so much like the real Cynthia it’s scary.  
But then he realizes she can’t kill him anymore than he already is, and finds it comforting.

“Good, you’re awake. I haven’t been lied to.” She observes him, then adds: “Do you know where you are, Mega?”

He forces his mouth open, and his first attempt to speak turns into a cough.

“Give him water, Susan,” says Hell Cynthia.

Hell Susan approaches with a glass he slowly bends over Curt’s half-open mouth, and the water gliding through his throat is soothing.

“Enough,” says Hell Cynthia to Hell Susan. “So, Mega. Do you know where you are?”  
“Hell,” he manages to say after another cough.  
“Is it what the young ones call Western Berlin these days? If so, yes.”

Hell Cynthia can make jokes? That’s a surprise.

“Do you know what happened to you?” she asks again.

He remembers the kiss on his forehead, and Owen’s voice, with as much precision as if they were real.

“Owen,” he manages to breath.  
“Yes, indeed, that Owen Carvour guy found you in one of those KGB hellholes, I don’t fucking know how, and he brought you here. You’ve been in a coma for two weeks – I’m sure you could have woken up earlier if those doctors twats hadn’t decided that you _needed this for recovery_ , but here we are. So now, no thanks to them, I’ve spent two weeks in complete fucking darkness, and I have very urgent questions to ask you.” She withdraw a cigarette and a lighter from inside her jacket, and light it and exhales before asking: “So tell you? Did you fucking tell anything to them?”  
Curt is starting to get very confused. “To… who?”  
“The KGB, you fucking dumb-dumb.”

Why is Hell Cynthia asking about the KGB? He’s dead. It doesn’t fucking matter anymore.  
That’s what he tells her.

“I’m dead. Who cares?”

His sentence ends in a coughing fit, and Hell Susan puts more water in his mouth.  
Cynthia stares at him with her usual condescending air.

“You’re not fucking dead, you idiot. Would you feel that if you were dead?”

She touches him somewhere on his arm and tears flow to his eyes.

“No you wouldn’t,” she answers for him. “Please don’t make me repeat what I’ve already said. KGB hellhole, Owen Carvour, coma, western Berlin, fucking doctors, blah, blah, blah. So, did you say anything to the KGB? About you? The CIA? Me? Anyone?”

Curt processes her words with difficulty. He’s not dead?  
This isn’t hell?  
Everything is real?

“Don’t fucking fall back to sleep on me, you asshole,” snaps Cynthia. “Just tell me if you said anything.”  
“… No,” he finally says after a few seconds.

If this is not hell, that means he’s talking to the real Cynthia.  
And the pain is real.  
And Owen was real.  
But which part of Owen?  
Was the kiss on his forehead real?  
Or was it the mad Owen he heard at some point?

“Are you sure?” insists Cynthia.  
“I didn’t… say anything.”  
“Good. I would have sent you to hell myself if you had.”

He wants to ask her about Owen, but he knows he can’t.  
Because, if that was just a figment of his imagination, she doesn’t need to know it.

“Well, Mega, since you still don’t seem very lively to me, I’ve got a few fucking phone calls to make, and I’ll come back later with more questions. You better be ready to answer them.”

And, with a last nod, she leaves the room, only leaving behind her the awful smell of her cigarette and the still silent Susan.  
Somehow, the knowledge that he’s still alive crushes Curt more than the realization that he was in hell.

 

***

 

He dozes back to sleep, waiting for Cynthia to put her threat to execution, but it is restless and more tiring than anything else.  
He was fine with dying.  
He really was.  
Leaving on a high note, and all that shit.  
Knowing that he’s still alive and will still have to deal with everything he thought he’d left behind him – his guilt, his many failures, the disappointment in other people’s eyes, and Cynthia, and the expectation put on his shoulder that he’s never able to reach, and yes, even his mom, even _Owen_ –, just, people and what they want from him; it just seems too much to handle.  
He can already guess other people’s reaction. Of course, no one will clearly state their disappointment in him – except Cynthia, but Cynthia is always disappointed, whatever he does –, but he can clearly see the pity, the concern, the doubt in their eyes. Can they still trust him? Is he still able to do his job? Has he been compromised? Can he still function properly? All that and more will always be lingering, now that they will think him broken, injured, helpless.  
And he’d rather be dead than endure that. Disgust, hatred, condescendence; he’s been on the receiving end of all that before, and he faced it, and he pretended he was fine – he was, mostly. But pity? Being seen as less than a man? He can’t do that. Not anymore. He’s given too much. He deserves some rest.  
He felt better in hell.  
When Cynthia comes back, these thoughts have been coming round his head for what seems like hours, and he’s reached the point where he’s just thinking about unplugging all the wires and tubes that go in and out of his body, just to stop everything.  
Sadly, the ever-watching Susan would probably stop him.  
As usual, Cynthia doesn’t care about the state of his body and mind, and she asks him relentless questions about his captivity, his captors, and everything that had happened to him since he was taken – more than a month and a half ago, he learns. He doesn’t know the answer to most of her questions, and she seems to be getting madder and madder when he tells her that. The air becomes irrespirable because of her cigarettes, but she keeps asking and smoking, despite his lack of answers and closer coughing fits.

“God, Mega, if at least you had rendered all that mess useful!” she finally snaps, frustrated by the thinness of what he can offer. “If I had known you wouldn’t bring anything good back, I’d have let you die.”  
“Maybe you should have,” he snaps back.

For what may be the first time in his life, he holds her gaze as she stares at him. Her cigarette hangs in the air, her eyes are angry, and he can swear he hears Susan holding his breath.

“You fucking better be joking,” she finally says in a very calm tone, still staring at him.

He knows there’s no good answer, so he doesn’t say anything.

She eventually is the one to sigh and look away, taking one last puff of her cigarette before crushing it in the full ashtray. “At least you didn’t betray anyone, so I guess you didn’t fuck everything up.”

He keeps staring at her, but his brows furrow. Was that a compliment? Probably not. But it’s the least mean thing he’s ever heard her say.

“I’m heading back to the States tonight – I have more urgent business waiting for me. If you remember anything else, tell Susan: he’ll know how to contact me. Oh and, be warned : as soon as you feel good enough to get out of that bed, I want you back on the field. Don’t get lazy.”

He feels somewhat relieved when the door closes behind her. At least, despite his massive fuck-up, he still has a job.

 

***

 

The next few days are a full on return to reality. Doctors after doctors come to explain him what’s broken in him – everything –, how long it will take to recover – a couple of lifetimes –, and what he’s allowed to do in the meantime – laying in bed. He takes everything in, blow after blow, the news hurting more than the actual injuries. Now that he’s accepted that he’s definitely still alive and can’t do much about it, he just wants to go back to _living_ , doing things, even just to stop thinking.  
He has gotten no news of Owen. Not that he expects any – talk about suspicious behavior. He didn’t ask about him either, and all that he knows is what Cynthia told him: Owen was the one who found him and called for help. He knows he was transferred here, in Berlin. She didn’t say if he came.  
When he heard his voice yelling, was it a dream?  
When he felt his lips on his forehead, was it a dream?  
And, last year, was it a dream?  
He has no one to answer his questions, and he doesn’t trust himself to do so properly.  
Did Owen find him randomly on one of his missions? Did he look for him? Was he worried?  
He probably wasn’t. They’ve spend longer without seeing each other before. There’s a good chance it was just random luck.  
He must have been very surprised to find him there, in this KGB safe house. Talk about disappointment, uh? If Owen has ever respected him for his spy skills, it’s all gone now. What kind of spy lets themselves be captured and tortured for a month? Not the good kind, that’s for sure.

Truth is, Curt wouldn’t even be surprised if he never hears from Owen again.  
So here, in this hospital bed, under the always open eyes of Susan – does that guy ever sleep? –, Curt’s mind keeps hesitating, like during his captivity.  
Most of the time, he’s just doing what he’s told, in lack of a better idea, and getting accustomed to the idea that he’ll never see Owen again. It’s fine. He’ll just go back to the way he was before. He’s done it. He can do it again.  
But at moments, he wishes he could see him again. Just once. Just to say “thank you for saving my life” – even though he’s not sure he’ll mean it. Owen deserves that. And for himself… seeing Owen again might either kill him or make him happier than anything else since he’s returned to the living. Either way, he’ll take it.

His nights are restless, but he’s learnt to not pay attention to the hospital noises. Doors close and open all the time, there’s a constant beeping and wheezing noise, and a conversation is always happening in the background.  
But that night, something in the shuffling of feet on his bedroom’s floor forces him so leave the half-sleep he’s gotten used to. He opens his eyes to find a tall and disheveled silhouette next to his bed. Despite the darkness, he immediately recognizes him.

“Owen?” he whispers, before looking around for Susan.

Apart from them, the bedroom is empty.

“Hi, love. Sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

He feels a hand searching for his own and pressing his palm and fingers. He contains a hiss of pain.

“Where is…”  
“I don’t have much time,” whispers Owen, “so let’s not waste it. One of nurses here has been keeping tabs on you for me, and right now she dragged Susan to the other side of the hospital. I wanted to come see you sooner, but they wouldn’t let me in when you were in a coma, and after that I was in New Zealand and only got back this morning. I came as soon as I heard you were awake.”

Curt feels a lump forming in his throat. Owen’s hand cautiously finds its place on his forehead, brushing away his hair.

“Fuck, Curt, I thought you were dead.” There’s some kind of relief in his voice, and his hands tense on his body.  
“Yeah, me too.” Curt can’t stop the bitterness in his tone.

Owen is here. He came for him. What is wrong with him? He’s glad it’s too dark for Owen to see his face.

“Curt, what’s wrong?” asks Owen while crouching to be on his level, echoing his thoughts.  
“I’m fine,” snaps Curt.  
Owen’s light laugh tickles the skin of his arm. “You’re not fine, Curt. The fact that you’re in a hospital bed should be proof of it. Fuck, you had lost so much weight when I found you that I could carry you without a sweat. If you could have seen yourself…” His voice breaks, and he doesn’t end his sentence.  
Curt turns his head toward him. He can see him more clearly now, and his heart aches just to know he’s here, just to _feel_ him. He tries to squeeze his hand between his fingers and says, his voice close to choking: “Thanks. You didn’t… you didn’t have to do it.”  
Owen’s eyes meet his. “And what did you want me to do? Did you expect me to just stand there doing nothing when I learnt that you were missing? That no one – _no fucking one_ – in your agency was bothered enough to do anything about it? Did you expect me to just give up and wait to see if you would turn back on your own?”  
“I…”  
Owen gets up, his voice still on edge, almost accusatory, his hand still holding Curt’s. “Would you have given up, if this had been the other way round?”

Curt opens his mouth, but there’s a few seconds before any word comes out of it – the lump is taking more and more space in his throat.

“No.” His voice breaks. He repeats, in a clearer tone. “No. I would have searched every nook and cranny.”  
“So what made you think I’d do otherwise for you?”

Curt tries to shrug, but even such an insignificant gesture is painful.

“Fuck, Curt,” sighs Owen while passing his free hand through his hair – is it longer, now? Or did he forget how it was before? “You’re impossible.”  
“Yeah, that’s what Cynthia said.”  
“Fuck Cynthia.” His tone is clearly angry, now. “She didn’t even bother looking for you. You’d disappeared, you had no tracker, well, bad luck, nothing could be done. I was the only one who did something about it. I even jeopardized my own job just to look for you! And now, no one wants to tell me anything. I was the one who brought you back, for fuck’s sake!”

Again, Curt squeezes his fingers – the only gesture he seems to be able to make.

“Owen.”

There’s a sigh, as Owen’s thumb rubs his skin.

“Sorry. I’m not angry at you. It’s not your fault. You were the one who got caught. Nothing you could have done about it.”  
“Yeah, except being more careful and less reckless,” Curt snorts.  
“Do you think that? Did _Cynthia_ say that? Who the fuck put that idea in your mind?”

Owen drops his hand and starts pacing, hands in his hair. Curt immediately feels stripped of everything warm. His fingers clutch the empty air.

“Fuck, Curt. You gotta stop thinking you’re responsible for everything bad that happens to you. We’re spies! Sometimes we get hurt! Sometimes we get caught! And it’s not our fucking fault! You didn’t ask to be tortured, for fuck’s sake!”  
“Owen,” interrupts Curt in a soft voice.

Owen stops and sigh.

“Come back,” pleads Curt – he didn’t want to sound pleading.

Owen is back at his side and holding his hand again. He can finally breathe.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t waste our time getting angry,” he laughs.

There are so many things Curt would want to do; so many things he’d want to say. But right now, he can’t move, and nothing reaches his mouth. But Owen doesn’t seem to notice it as he keeps talking:

“So tell me. How are you? How do you feel?”  
“Alive,” says Curt.

And that’s true. Right now, with Owen at his side, that’s the more alive he’s felt since he woke up.

“Well, that’s a start. When are you gonna be healed?”  
“In a million years, probably,” sighs Curt.  
“Shit, Curt,” whispers Owen in a less joyful tone. He starts caressing his cheek, but quickly withdraws his hand as he asks: “Am I hurting you?”  
“Nah,” answers Curt. Maybe he is, but that doesn’t matter.

The hand comes back, and Curt leans into it. When Owen leans over him to kiss his forehead, Curt ignores all the pain and raises his other arm, putting his hand in Owen’s hair and pulling him in for a kiss.  
He tastes like home.  
Curt wants more of him, more of this, he wants a full embrace and to feel Owen with every inch of his body and soul, but right now neither his body or his soul seem to be able to obey him.  
And the door rattles, cutting every inclination they might have had to take this further.

Owen slightly detaches himself from Curt and whispers: “Don’t worry, I’ve locked the door.”

Curt feels the smile on his lips as he kisses him one last time before withdrawing and letting go of his hand. Curt’s breath catches in his throat, and he barely registers the yells and the rattling on the other side of the door.  
When it finally opens and the lights go on, Owen is calmly leaning against the wall, and he winks at him.  
Susan is the first to come in, followed by a doctor, a couple of nurses and two – no, three – bodyguards.

“What happened here?” yells Susan.  
“I’m fine,” sighs Curt. “Well, at least, I’m not worse than before.”

Owen chuckles – he’s the only one.

“Who are you?” asks one of the bodyguards, pointing a gun toward Owen. “What are you doing here?”  
“I’m–” starts Owen, but Curt cuts him.  
“Leave him. I asked him to come. He’s the one who saved my life and I wanted to thank him.”

Owen raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

“That’s okay, you can leave, no one’s dead,” sighs Curt while letting his head fall back on the pillow.

Doctor, nurses and bodyguards all look at Susan, who assesses the situation before nodding. One by one, they all leave the room, the last one closing the door.

“Cynthia will–” starts Susan when there’s just the three of them left, but Curt snaps at him.  
“If Cynthia has anything to say about any of that, tell her it’s my fault. She can’t hurt me anymore than I am.”

Truth is, she can, but right now Curt doesn’t fucking care: he’s just pissed not to be alone with Owen anymore.

“Now can you leave us alone? We’re not done yet.”  
“Cynthia will–”  
“Kill me, I know. I don’t care.”

Curt keeps glaring at him until Susan mutters something in his breath and leaves the room. Owen stares at the closed door for a few seconds before coming back to the bed.

“Well, Curt, that was kinda hot,” he chuckles.

He doesn’t kiss him, but the way he touches his hand has nothing friendly. Curt clenches his jaw, ready to do the hardest thing he’s done all night – all year, maybe.

“Owen?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“Don’t come back.”  
“Wha–”  
“You’ve already jeopardized your job enough as it is. You said it yourself. And if you come back, and Cynthia finds out – and she probably will –… there’s a good chance you’ll pay for it. And she’ll get suspicious.”  
“Curt, that is–”  
“And we won’t be able to work together once I’m out.”

Curt just stares at him with the hardest look he can muster. Owen stares back before smiling.

“That’s it? You’ve done your speech? Good. Now,” he leans toward him and whispers: “I’ll let you know that I don’t give a rat’s ass about Cynthia or what she may do to me. I’m not scared of her. What I’m scared of, is letting you vulnerable to what she thinks of you and what she may do to you, and–”  
“I’m not vulnerable,” mumbles Curt.  
Owen huffs. “No, you’re not. Not really. But what I meant was, if I leave you alone with Cynthia and Susan and your own thoughts for I don’t know how many weeks, when you come back there’s a good chance you won’t want to work with me anymore. And I can’t let that happen, can I?”

Curt knows the probability of him _not_ wanting to work with Owen is void, but he lets him keep going.

“So I’m gonna come back. I’ll get Cynthia’s blessing if I have to, or I’ll kill her, don’t matter which, but I’ll come back to check on you and make sure your recovery actually is a recovery. And if you ever need me or, you know, just want to see that handsome face–” he winks, “tell that nurse named Rita – she’s the one who helped me get here tonight. Okay, love?”  
Curt stares at him for a few seconds before saying: “You’ll never be able to kill Cynthia.”  
Owen laughs. “Well, then I’ll just have to charm her, don’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things Curt is afraid of in this chapter, from least to most :  
> 1) Cynthia  
> 2) Being alive  
> 3) Owen being mad at him  
> 4) Owen being hurt
> 
> Curt, you're terrible at prioritizing things.
> 
>  
> 
> (btw this is my favourite chapter so far)


	10. Home – July 1955

Owen actually comes back. Not every week, not even regularly, but he comes back.  
Of course, nothing can _really_ happen between them, not with all those eyes around them – not only Susan’s, but the doctors’, the nurses’, and even Cynthia’s, always looming despite the distance; but sometimes there are small, unexpected touches. When he holds his arm to help him sit up. When he passes him a glass of water and their fingers brush. When he puts his hand on his shoulder to be able to stand up.  
Sometimes, these touches linger a little longer than they should, but Curt can still put that on his too slow recovery and his need for help.  
And there are those other touches, when the eyes look elsewhere for a brief moment. A hand on the small of his back. Fingers in the hair. And, sometimes, when they’re lucky, mouth on skin.  
They never last, but that’s what make him long for more.

  
Owen’s visits also push him to recover faster. He wants to be able to prove to him that he’s getting better, that he’s still planning on being a good spy, and that, when they’ll get back on the field, he’ll still be the agent he was.  
He doesn’t really know how Owen got into Cynthia’s good graces. He probably flirted his way in, as always, but Curt wouldn’t have thought her susceptible to such schemes.  
Truth be told, he wouldn’t have thought _himself_ susceptible to such schemes either, but maybe Owen’s smile is _that_ irresistible after all.  
But still, Owen seems to be able to come and go as he pleases, despite Susan’s judgmental attitude, so he probably got clearance one way or another. Curt always plans to ask him how, but the little time they got alone is better spend doing… other things.  
When they have a chaperone, though, they mostly talk. About Curt’s progresses, about the geo-political situation – Curt literally spent a month in a cave, he’s got a few things to catch up with –, about other safe topics that do not concern either of them personally.  
It’s actually nice, to just talk. They haven’t exactly done much of that before. Of course, there has been, a little during long stakeouts, dark nights, car drives. But mostly, when they’ve been with each other, they’ve either been focused on their mission, or too busy letting their bodies speak for them. But now, in this forced conversation, they get to know each other a little bit better, and Curt finds comfort and a new form of intimacy in their discussions.

When he’s getting better and transferred to the US, Owen doesn’t show up as often, but he still comes, from time to time.  
The idea of seeing his smile again, of hearing his laugh again, whenever that _again_ may be, is what keeps Curt moving forward and, as times passes, he doesn’t regret that much _not_ being in hell.

  
Summer has begun when his doctors _finally_ decide that it’s okay, he can go back to his home, his life, his job. He doesn’t know who’s the most relieved at that idea: Susan or himself. The man has not left him for the past… three month? Already? Truth be told, they’re both tired of each other and the relief is mutual.

  
But the most agreeable thing of the day comes out of what he thought would be the worst: entering Cynthia’s office. Though he’s excited to go back on the field – three months of doing nothing make him long for any kind of action –, he’s feeling apprehensive at the idea of meeting with Cynthia: he’s sure she’ll find something to say about the speed of his recovery – of lack thereof –, his stupidity for getting hurt in the first place, his treatment of Susan, the time spent with Owen, or whatever shit she’ll come up with that day. Owen has somewhat tried to persuade him that her anger was generic and not specifically directed toward him, but he can’t help but feel a knot in his stomach at the idea of what she could say. She’s his boss, after all, and if she’s not happy with his job, there has to be a reason, right?  
But when he opens the door, after Susan drove him straight from the hospital, he finds her in a conversation – yes, a _conversation_ , not the usual type of yelling monologue he usually gets from her – with none other than Owen. Their eyes meet and they briefly nod at each other in a noncommittal way – and yet Curt swears the way Owen smiles has some of that smug flirtiness he’s grown accustomed to.

“Ah, Curt, good, you’re finally here. Sit down. You know Owen, there’s no need for an introduction.”

Curt takes place in the seat she’s pointing and, though his muscles still hurt a bit when he moves, the fact that he can actually move and feel them feels good.

“Owen has been too kind to not only save your ass,” says Cynthia while lighting a cigarette, “but also to babysit you on your first mission back on the field – after the disaster of the last one, no one wants to see you making any more mistakes.”  
“It’s my pleasure, Cynthia,” smiles Owen, nonchalantly sitting on his chair.  
“Well it’s mine too, cause I have no fucking time to mother any agent, and especially you, Curt. The doctors said you were good to go, so I expect you to be fully back on this and not to rely too much on him, because our dear Owen hereby won’t be watching your ass at all time – unless you wished to join the CIA, Owen.”  
“That’s called treason, love,” winks Owen.

 _Winks_.  
Did Cynthia just smile at Owen’s wink?  
Did he just call her _love_?

“Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me,” she waves him off with the smoke of her cigarette. “Anyway, Curt, I’ve already explained everything to Owen as we were waiting for you, so I don’t have any more time to waste and I’ll let him tell you. Here’s your file.”  
He catches the file she gives him and, before letting it go, she says, holding his eyes: “Welcome back, Curt.”

 

***

 

“When do we leave?” asks Curt once in the corridor, perusing the file.  
“Tomorrow morning,” answers Owen.  
“Okay. And also, did you wink at Cynthia?”  
“I did.”  
“Are you really sure I didn’t die and end up in hell?”  
“That depends.”  
“On what?”  
“Would _that_ happen in hell?”

Saying that, Owen pulls him into an empty office and pushes him against the wall, kissing him fiercely as he locks the door.  
The file falls to the floor as Curt’s hands bury themselves into Owen’s hair, his neck, his back, everywhere they can reach. Clearly the small touches they shared for the past few months weren’t enough. If anything, they left him, they left them _both_ , wanting for more.  
When they separate for air, Curt smiles and, eyes still closed, hands still cupping Owen’s face, says:

“That depends.”  
“What?”  
“You asked if _that_ would happen in hell. My answer is ‘that depends’.”  
“On what?”  
“Did someone see us?”  
“The corridor was literally empty.”  
“Then I guess I’m not in hell,” whispers Curt as he pulls him back for a kiss.

 

***

 

After a quick detour to the tech division to meet with Barb – Curt isn’t exactly sure about how he feels to her giving more attention to Owen that himself –, they are finally free to go, as their plane only leaves early on the next morning, and it’s not even noon.  
It’s almost a full day of freedom for him – for both of them. That’s something they’ve never had. Their time together has either been stolen in the middle of a mission or, these last few months, under strict supervision at the hospital. It’s so much, and so unexpected, that Curt is at loss for what to do.

“How about we got lunch,” says Owen while putting an arm around his shoulders as they exit the CIA building, “and then I’ll let you prove to me that you can still shoot a gun.”  
“Of course I can still shoot a gun. I’m ready to bet that I’m still better than you.”  
“What do you bet?” asks Owen with a teasing smile.  
“Dinner?”  
Owen shrugs. “Sounds fine.”

His arm then leaves Curt’s shoulders to stop a cab.

 

***

 

They spend the rest of the day wandering in the city, having lunch in a small burger place, then going to a shooting range Curt frequents from time to time when he doesn’t want to be at the CIA – Owen _is_ better than him, but not by far –, then walking along the streets until they get hungry and Owen spends what seems like _hours_ picking a place for dinner. Though it’s not like they can publicly kiss, or hold hands, or do anything that make them even remotely look like a couple, just being able to spend a day together like that, this illusion of normality, makes him feel like everything could be – _is_ – fine. He’s out of the hospital. He has Owen. He can still shoot a gun. He’s eating pizza. What could be wrong?  
He knows it’s just a one-off day, and that tomorrow they’ll be back to work, they’ll be spies again, and things will go back to _their_ normality, full of missions on the other side of the world, stakeout, contrabands, bombs and killing; but he can’t help himself but entertain this fantasy that this day, this life, could last forever.

When they’re back in the street, in the warm summer evening, their bellies full, Curt turns toward Owen and asks: “Wanna come to my place?”

Owen raises his eyebrows.

“I mean, my neighbor doesn’t have a cat,” adds Curt, “and you probably have a nice hotel room waiting for you somewhere, but you know, since you’re in town…”

Owen’s smile matches his own.

“Curt Mega, are you making an indecent proposal? To me?”  
“I wouldn’t dare.”  
Owen leans to whisper in his ear: “Show me the way.”

 

***

 

Curt stops on his doorstep: from inside his apartment comes the noise of someone shuffling around a cupboard. He signals Owen to stay silent and reaches for his gun. Owen copies him. He pushes the doorknob. The door opens. Slowly, his back against the wall, he enters the apartment.

“Curtis, is that you?” asks a high-pitched voice he knows all too well as a small woman in a robe comes out of the kitchen.  
“Mom!” he sighs, both in relief and in exasperation.  
“Oh, Curtis! At least, you’re home.”  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, putting his gun back inside his jeans.  
“Well, since I didn’t have any news from you, I did contact your agency and, can you believe it, at first no one wanted to tell me where you were! But I insisted and I insisted, and finally they told me you were at a hospital. I tried to come and see you, but I had this chat with this lovely man named Susan – he has a very handsome mustache –, who told me you weren’t allowed to have any visitors, so I got his number and I’ve been calling him every day ever since to have some news from you. And when yesterday he told me you were released today, I decided to come here and make you a surprise! Are your surprised?”  
Mouth open, Curt takes a few seconds to answer: “Yeah.”  
“Oh, Curtis, I’m so happy to see you well,” she says while pulling him in for a hug.

He lets her do it, but doesn’t put too much in himself in the act.

“Did they treat you well at the hospital? Did they feed you enough? You must be hungry, right. Oh, and who is that?” she asks, finally noticing Owen, still in the doorway. “Is that a friend of yours, Curtis?”  
Curt gives a sorry look to Owen, who seems to be enjoying the situation way too much. “That’s Owen. My… friend.”  
“Very nice to meet you, m’am,” says Owen while extending his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  
“And I haven’t heard the slightest about you, so we have a lot to catch up. But come on in, boys. I hope you’re hungry, because I prepared all of Curtis’s favorite dishes.”

 

***

 

The next hour comes close to CIA interrogation: they are forced to eat an unimaginable amount of food while being asked dozens of questions they don’t have the time to answer. But Curt’s mother, sitting in front of them on a chair – they’re both on the couch –, doesn’t really seem to care about what they have to say. She jumps from one topic to the other without any form or order, and not expecting an answer to any of her questions. She goes over “you’re a friend from work, right?”, passing by “when he was a kid Curtis had so much trouble learning to ride a bike”, “did you meet Sally? What a lovely girl. It’s a shame Curtis hasn’t met anyone since. You should introduce him to some girls” and “how does your mother cooks beef stew? I’ve tried getting it right all my life but I never seem to find the right twist.”  
Curt is perfectly fine with letting her talk, though he wishes she would go to bed. He catches Owen’s amused smile, and is somewhat relieved to find no mockery in it. She may be rambling nonsense, but she’s still his mother, and he wouldn’t want anyone – and especially Owen – to think ill of her.  
When she finally goes to bed – Curt insisted to let her have his room, saying him and Owen have to leave early in the morning –, they stay in silence on the couch for a few long seconds, having eaten way too much. They look at each other, and Owen eventually puts his hand on Curt’s neck, laying his head back on the headrest.

“She sure does talk a lot,” he whispers with a smile.  
Curt huffs. “That’s not exactly how I imagined this night would go. Sorry.” His hand wanders on Owen’s thigh.  
“Don’t apologize,” murmurs Owen’s lips behind his ear. “That was nice. You really couldn’t stand seeing blood as a kid?”

Curt pinches his thigh before pulling him in and Owen’s laugh tickles his skin.

“I got better with practice,” he laughs in Owen’s hair before kissing him.  
After a few minutes with their hands and lips on each other, Owen slightly detaches himself and asks: “What about your mom?”  
Curt laughs. “What, you think this is my first rodeo?”  
With one leg spread over Curt’s, Owen smiles and caresses his cheek. “I don’t know, you tell me.”  
“You know, I was a teenager once.”  
“We all were.”  
“Well, I learnt a few things back then, and one of them is, when my mom is asleep, _nothing_ can wake her up. Nothing.”  
“So she won’t burst in here looking for a glass of water or anything?”  
“Not a chance.” Curt’s smile grows wider, and so does Owen’s.  
“Good. Then maybe I’ll have the evening you promised me, after all.”

Owen pulls him in by the collar of his shirt and they both collapse on the couch, a tangle of arms, legs and muffled laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that chapter 50% fan service with no influence at all on the plot? More like 70% if you ask me but #iregretnothing
> 
> Also, fun fact : i've now reached the point where I have no buffer chapter and actually have to go back to *writing*. But hey, living on the edge and thriving on deadlines is my way of life.


	11. Chili – July 1955

“You sure you’re feeling up for that, love?”

Crouching next to Owen, Curt nods while checking his gun is loaded.

“I’m still a spy, you know.”  
“I know. It’s just–”  
“You know, despite what Cynthia said, there’s no need to mother me.”

Curt hates himself for being aggressive; Owen’s just making sure everything goes swimmingly. But, despite what he’s saying, Curt actually does feel nervous: after not being on the field that long, with his muscles still hurting, and Cynthia’s criticism carved deep under his skin, he can’t help but think that, maybe, he shouldn’t be here at all; maybe he’s a liability; maybe Owen would rather be here alone, without having to watch over him.

“Stop it,” says Owen, pushing his shoulder.  
“Stop what?” he answers aggressively.  
“Worrying,” smiles Owen.  
“I’m not. I’m fine.”  
“Yeah, you are.” Owen turns completely toward him and adds: “You know what? You’re totally fine. You’re better than fine. Actually, you’re one of the best spies I’ve ever met. I’d even say the best – apart from me, of course. And you’re gonna ace this mission. _We’_ re gonna ace this mission. Because we’re the best.”

Curt smiles at Owen’s attempt to cheer him up.

“Well, keep patting your own back as long as you want, but I’ve got a warehouse to explode.”

With that, he leaves, half-crouched, half-running, toward said warehouse.  
It belongs to a drug lord, who apparently uses it to store, well, drugs, guns, and whatever a drug lord has to store somewhere and, according to their order of mission, it would be better if this warehouse and whatever it stores simply… disappeared.  
It’s an easy mission, actually, and there was no need for two of them to be here. But Cynthia probably didn’t trust him enough to send him on his own – or, maybe, Owen insisted for coming? Or could they both be hiding something from him, and there’s more to it than what he’s been told?  
He’s probably just being paranoid.  
Hidden behind a tree and waiting for Owen to catch up, he quickly takes a flask from inside his jacket and takes it to his lips. That’ just because he hasn’t been on the field for so long. He just needs a little bit of bravery.

“How about we make it a challenge?” says Owen as he joins him.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Blowing up this warehouse isn’t gonna be hard. Let’s say, what, no more than twenty minutes, in and out?”

Curt looks at him and smile.

“How about we make it fifteen?”

Owen smiles wider.

“Deal.”

 

***

 

The warehouse bursts into flames behind them, and Curt looks at his watch. He sighs.

“Seventeen minutes. Sorry.”  
He really felt like he did his best in there. But it took him nine minutes to locate the fuse box, and then he was so on edge he kept messing things up. Owen had to come help him, after doing his part of the job to secure everything.  
What must he think of him, now?

“Not your fault, love.” Owen puts his hand on his neck and squeezes lightly. “This fuse box was a bitch to find.”  
“It shouldn’t have been!” blows Curt, scooting away from his hand. “I’m a fucking spy, this should have been a ten minutes job, not twenty, and both of us didn’t even need to be here!”

Though he won’t look at Owen – he’s not mad at him, if he’s honest –, he senses him frown in the dark. The tone of the answer has lost all flirtiness.

“Cynthia shouldn’t have sent you in the field right after your return from the hospital. You…”  
“I’m what, not good enough?” yells Curt while standing up from his crouching position. “You think I’ve lost it, right? You think Cynthia was right to think I needed babysitting, and…”  
“I think,” interrupts Owen while standing up too, “that you just got out of three months in the hospital and one month in horrible detention condition, and that Cynthia shouldn’t have asked that much of you as soon.”

Curt opens his mouth, but, raising his palm, Owen stops him.

“You’re a good spy, Curt, and you’ve always been, never doubt that. But being hurt, and being out of the field, it messes with us and with our reflexes. Remember when I broke my arm? Hell, it was just one limb, and it took me a good couple of weeks to get back to my regular self. You? You were tortured, your whole body was fucking injured, and you literally just got out of three months in the hospital. Cynthia shouldn’t have pushed you straight back into the field. Not because you’re bad, but because you _need time to recover_.”  
“I’ve had three months to do that,” Curt mumbles.  
Owen snorts. “You had three months of doctors poking at you under the eye of that perv Susan. And don’t tell me your muscles are working just fine, I’ve seen you move and I’m not gonna believe you. And that’s not even counting the fucking bullshit Cynthia and her goons put into your head during that time —”  
“I’m fine,” snaps Curt. “I’m back here because I want to, because I was turning crazy being fucking useless, and no one puts anything into my head that I don’t want to be there. So stop fucking pitying me, and if you wanna help, stop telling me how I should feel. If you’re gonna be mad at me, just —”  
“I’m not mad at you,” interrupts Owen with a tone bordering sadness. “I have never been mad at you – except when you left that hotel room with a note, but, well, that’s history,” he chuckles. “But not now. I’m not mad at you for the seventeen minutes. I’m impressed. That fact that you’re here, now, after all you’ve been through, is amazing in itself.”  
“It’s not —”  
“I’m mad at Cynthia, who never did anything for you, ever, and has no concern for your health and feelings, and I’m mad at the whole system that lets that kind of thing happen without batting a fucking eye. And I sure don’t pity you. I just want you to be your best self. And I know you can’t be, if you keep doing everything Cynthia tells you to.”

Curt is too angry to hear any of that as a consolation, and he takes a step back.

“So you think I’m too stupid to make my own decisions? That I only do as I’m told? That I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to? I’m not a puppet, Owen. And I’m not fragile.”  
“The fact that it’s ‘your’ decision doesn’t make it any less bad. Your history shows that you’ve never been really good at protecting yourself.”  
“Because it’s not my job! I protect others, not me!”  
“And your agency is supposed to protect you! But when have they ever done that, uh? When has Cynthia, or anyone, ever _cared_? I’m the only one who cares about you enough to protect you, Curt.”  
“And I don’t need your protection! I don’t need anyone’s protection! But you know what? Since I _shouldn’t be here_ and I’m _not fit for the job yet_ , why don’t you just wrap all that on your own, and I’ll just go and rest, since that’s all you think I’m able to do, uh? I’m not gonna think by myself, because I apparently can’t do that, I’m just gonna follow your rules, right? Since you know better than me what’s good for me.” He takes a step back and stops Owen with his hand. “Don’t try to follow me.” He squares his jaw and concludes : “I never thought you’d be one to try and boss me around.”

He then disappears into the night, leaving the flames of the warehouse behind him. No footsteps echo behind him.  
He doesn’t know whether that was what he wanted.

 

***

 

The relief on Owen’s face is visible as he opens the hotel room’s door.

“You’re here,” he sighs.

Truth is, Curt was ready to jump on a plane the moment he left Owen behind, but by the time he got here to pick his bag, all energy had left him and Owen’s words had sunk in.  
Owen was right. If Curt abandoned him without a word, who would be left to care for him? Owen was the only one, apart from his mum, maybe, who had ever fought for him. He had rescued him, multiple times, and not only physically. Even if he was probably not conscious of it, Owen had picked up the pieces of him and put them together, with his hands, his lips, his words, his smiles, even his worries. Owen was the reason Curt was standing today.  
Owen was the reason Curt _wanted_ to stand.  
Who would he be, if he just left Owen behind? What kind of friend? Of human?  
Owen didn’t deserve that.  
So Curt had taken a swig of alcohol, sat on the bed, and waited.  
Owen would probably still be mad at him when he’ll come back, he thought. After all, the way Curt talked to him, the way he left him back there, to deal with all of the consequences of his reckless actions, he has every right to.  
But no, Owen just runs to him and stops, inches from him, as if not daring to come any closer.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, concern in his voice.

Curt shrugs and nods.

“I’m sorry.”

Owen crouches and cups his cheek with his hand.

“No, _I’m_ sorry. None of this is your fault. I shouldn’t have tried to push that on you. I shouldn’t have tried to control you. I… I’m just worried. About you.”

Almost involuntarily, Curt leans into his hand.

“You were right,” he summons the will to say. “I sucked, tonight. I’m not ready. The fact that I stormed off proved that.”

Owen’s hand slides on the back of his neck, and he pulls Curt toward him, hugging him with his other hand on Curt’s back.

“I don’t blame you, Curt. I admit, I was scared you’d left for good, and I’d have understood, but I guess that, deep down, I knew you wouldn’t do that.”  
“Not to you,” mumbles Curt, nestled in Owen’s neck.

He buries his hands in Owen’s shirt, just to assure him he’s not letting go, and inhales deeply. Owen smells of smoke, cold air and warm ironed clothes. Over time, this odor has become comforting to Curt and, right now, he feels himself relaxing as he sighs.

“I’m not gonna leave you either,” breathes Owen against his skin.  
He then steps back and, holding Curt’s face between his palms, assures: “You may not have been at your best tonight, but you’ll get there. We’ll get there. I’ll be with you every step of the way. That’s a promise. Okay?”

Owen holds his gaze until he nods.

“Okay,” sighs Curt.  
“Since Cynthia, or Susan, or anyone at the CIA, is not gonna do anything for you, I’ll step in. We’re gonna make you the greatest spy alive, love.”

A feeble smile appears on Curt’s face.

“No.”  
“No?”  
“ _We_ ’re gonna make _us_ the greatest spies alive.”

Owen’s lips curl into a smile as well.

“I love the way you think, love,” he whispers, getting closer to Curt before kissing him.

Hands still holding Owen’s shirt, Curt pulls him as he falls on the bed behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry I'm late guys_   
>  _Got a lot on my plate guys_   
>  _It's hard to juggle work and life_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah. Remember when I said that "living on the edge and thriving on deadlines was my way of life"? Well. I never said I was good at it.  
> Long story short, I had a lot of work in May (also I binge watched all of Brooklyn nine nine), and then getting back to writing was haaaaaaaard (also I started watching The Adventures of Brisco County Jr), but I'm back at it ! Though I won't be much at home until the beginning of July (and if you're wondering if it's Jack White related YES IT IS), so I'll keep writing but I don't know if I'll be able to post.  
> But I'm back on track!  
> Unlike Curt js.


	12. Johannesburg – October 1955

“Seriously, of all the places, why is a Russian dude fleeing here?” asks Owen while pulling on the neck of his shirt. “It’s already too hot for me, I can’t imagine what it’s like for him.”

They’re here to meet with a former member of the Russian intelligence, who has fled his own country with valuable information and want to trade it with the west for sanctuary and protection against his former employers. Curt and Owen have been sent here to assess his value, officially because none of their agencies wanted to trust the other with the matter, officiously because they’ve become even better at maneuvering their missions in the shadows.  
Well, it’s still mostly Owen, but Curt has picked up a few of his tricks and flirts, to get him in the good graces of the CIA decision-makers – except Cynthia, of course, who has never and will probably never grant him any kind of grace. With their combined efforts, they’ve managed to spend most of their missions together since July; Owen has decided he no longer cares for what his superiors may think, and Curt feels so empty without him that he doesn’t protest the slightest. And, truth be told, Cynthia loves Owen so much that she doesn’t seem to care about what he does or how he does it – not when he takes her least favorite agent out of her hands.  
“What I don’t understand is why this guy wanted to meet in the middle of a park. We’ll be so exposed: if his former agency is still after him, they’d take him off in a second,” answers Curt.  
As usual, Owen was right: the more time they spend on the field together, the more confident Curt becomes. He regains his old reflexes, and make some new ones along the way. They learn to move together, work together, better than they ever did and, with Owen by his side, Curt feels so good, so powerful, like he could take down the world as long as his lover is with him.  
The alcohol may help, too.  
With Owen’s absence, with the occasional pain in his muscle, with his doubts that, no matter what he says, never quite leave him. Of course, he doesn’t drink all the time. He’s not a drunk. He just, sometimes, need a little nudge to silence his thoughts, or to give him a bit more courage, and Owen’s lips are not always around.  
And yes, he’s perfectly capable of functioning without alcohol. When he’s with Owen, he almost never drinks. Almost.

“Which is why,” says Owen with a big smile, stepping in front of him and walking backward, “I’ll be the only one to show up to the meeting and you’ll hide somewhere to back me up.

Curt pulls him by the hem of his shirt before he walks onto a passerby, and they both stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What do you mean, ‘back you up’? You think I can’t handle this meeting myself? There’s no need to protect me, Owen. I’m not fragile.”  
“I know that. I’m not protecting you. I’m trusting you to protect both of us, love,” answers Owen. He pulls Curt’s hand from his shirt and squeezes it lightly before letting it go.

Curt sighs and glances quickly around them, but no one is looking.

“I know you wouldn’t let anything happen to me, Curt.”

Even after all these years, that smile never fails to make Curt’s heart melt a little. Of course he won’t let anything happen to Owen.

“Let’s go,” he says, resuming their walk. “We don’t want to be late.”

 

***

 

Curt found a spot behind a couple of bushes, where he has a clear view on the bench where Owen is seated, waiting for the Russian guy.  
And, so far, the Russian guy is late. Owen doesn’t look too worried about it, as usual. With his sunglasses and his arms sprawled over the back of the bench, he looks like a regular guy enjoying the sun – and, also, in Curt’s opinion, very handsome (but when is Owen not handsome to him?).  
Curt finally spots a very white, very nervous dude walking toward Owen. All that, plus the fact that he’s clutching bag against him, immediately betrays him.

“He’s coming,” says Curt in Owen’s earpiece.

Owen runs a hand through his hair, signaling he’s on it.  
Over the past few months, they’ve developed a non-verbal sort of communication, to be able to exchange information in public. At first, Curt was afraid it would be hard for Owen, who has always been prone to using his hands when he speaks, but so far, they haven’t had any issues with that. On the contrary, Owen is much more a natural at that than Curt, who always look like he’s moving too much. Practice makes perfect, after all.  
The nervous dude sits next to Owen, who barely acknowledges him by removing his arm, leaving him some personal space. After a moment, Curt sees the man moving his lips, but he can’t hear anything. Not even turning to face him, Owen nods. The man talks again, faster. Owen nods again.  
Eventually, the man stands up and starts walking away, leaving his bag next to Owen.  
Curt almost relaxes, but then the man briefly turns to give a last look at Owen, and every one of Curt’s senses sharpens.

“Get on the ground! Behind you!”

It’s just a slight move in the leaves, but it’s enough to trigger Curt’s trained eye.  
Owen immediately obeys as Curt shoots a couple of bullets on the point in the bushes. A gargling noise comes as an answer, and he tells Owen:

“I’m going after our target, take care of the others!”

The nervous dude indeed started running as soon as Curt fired, which make him, in Curt’s eyes, even shadier than he already was. He somehow feels guilty about leaving Owen behind, but his lover is plenty capable of taking care of things himself, and he can’t let this guy run away.  
The Russian dude is probably not a field agent, considering the ease with which Curt catches up with him. He jumps on him from behind and they both fall in the grass, the Russian guy taking most of the hit.

“If you move, I shoot you,” groans Curt – first in English, then in Russian.

The guy doesn’t move.

 

***

 

Owen meets him later in the abandoned house outside of town where they’ve established their quarters. The Russian guy is tied in the basement, and Owen has blood on his hands when he nonchalantly drops the bag on the kitchen table.

“Not mine,” he says when he catches Curt’s look. “Don’t worry,” he adds with a smile.

Curt gets up and, nevertheless, takes Owen’s hands in his to inspect them.

“What happened?” he asks.  
“After your warning shot, they tried to shoot me, but I got to them first.”  
“Who were they?”  
“Two dudes. Russian, I’d say, but I didn’t take the time to interrogate them so I can’t say for sure. But they did look Russian.”

Curt raises his eyebrows.

“You killed them?”

Owen sighs.

“They didn’t leave me much of a choice. Your bullets had already wounded one of them, and they were more fight than flight. Sure, I’d have loved to have a conversation with them, but they didn’t seem to feel like it. I had to shoot the first one before he killed me, and the second shot himself in the mouth when he realized he only had one bullet left.” Owen lifts his hand to cup Curt’s face, brushing the cheek with his thumb. “I swear, love.”

Curt feels the blood, still wet, smearing on his face, but Owen’s sad smile is too close for him to really care. He leans forward and briefly kisses him.

“I trust you,” he whispers. “I was just worried.”  
“How about you?” asks Owen, not letting him go. “Did you get him?”  
“He’s downstairs.”

Owen’s smile widens.

“Let’s get to it, then.”

He then pulls Curt in and kisses him fiercely.

“Sorry I made you worry, love,” he mumbles against his lips. “And sorry I got blood all over you.”

Curt brushes his apologies away by kissing him back.

 

***

 

Curt cleaned himself up before getting to the basement, but Owen chose to keep his hands bloodied. Over the last few months, they have adopted some sort of good cop/bad cop routine, though it can be described as more of a silent cop/aggressive cop thing. After all, Owen likes interrogating, and Curt likes watching him do it. Like everything Owen does, he puts so much focus, passion and intensity into it, that the result is mesmerizing and, somehow, kind of sensual, despite the violence. Today, the blood on his hands adds something to the theatrics of his character, and only makes him, in Curt’s eyes, more fascinating.  
Sleeves up, sly grin on his face, Owen slowly walks toward the Russian man while Curt stays in the shadows, against the wall.

“So we actually meet again,” says Owen to the man tied in the chair. “I never thought it’s be so soon,” he adds while leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees.

Though the blood is drying, it leaves marks on his trousers.

“Maybe you can tell me your name, this time.”

The man answers in a panicked fast-paced Russian, and Curt opens his mouth to translate when Owen laughs.

“Of course you have nothing to do with all that, love,” he answers.

Curt feels a twinge of something he can’t quite define at his heart. Since when does Owen understand Russian? And does he _really_ have to keep calling everyone “love”?

“But please,” Owen continues, “understand our position. You give us a meeting, and then people try to kill us. You see how confusing that can be, right?”  
“They were after me!” answers the man in Russian. “I was trying to escape them as much as you were!”  
“Yes, yes, of course, how convenient.”

The fact that he’s still answering in English somehow comforts Curt. Maybe Owen’s understanding of Russian has gotten better, but not his accent. Maybe he still needs Curt for that.

“Then why were you in such a hurry to leave, if you wanted our protection? Why not, you know, stay and ask for it?”

The Russian shakes his head.

“It’s too risky. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

Flashes from his imprisonment, not even a year ago, pass behind Curt’s eyes. He knows plenty.

“And _you_ don’t know what _we_ ’re capable of, love.”

Again, Curt winces.

“So if you want us to believe your story, you’re gonna have to convince us with more talent than that.”  
“Let me explain everything, then.”

Owen straightens and crosses his arms. Curt detaches himself from the wall, moves until he’s standing next to him, and mimics his pose.

“We’re listening.”

The Russian man – Igor Stranievski – then starts, in a mix of Russian and bad English, to tell them how he came to leave the KGB, why, and who were the men after him. Apparently, he had been working for the Russian intelligence for about fifteen years, without so much as batting an eye, when he realized that one of his targets was a personal vengeance. He felt then forced to reconsider his whole career, dug a little to deep into the KGB files and, realizing the amount of corruption his work had supported, he discovered his moral compass and decided to take his findings to the enemy, and ask for protection in return for his services.

Owen snorts. “And you really think our camp is better than yours in terms of integrity? Sorry to burst your bubble, love, but you're in for a disappointment.”

Igor shakes his head.

“You will not believe what I've seen and read. It's all in the files I've given you.”  
“Oh, we'll have a look at that, don’t you worry. And of it checks out with your story and contains valuable information, we'll take you to our superiors. But don’t you fool yourself, darling: they're no better than the ones you left behind.”

 

***

 

Once they're back upstairs, Owen finally washes his hands.

“That poor Igor is in for a surprise if he truly believes our morals have the higher ground on theirs.”  
“Well, I can’t tell about your boss, but at least Cynthia is honest.”  
Owen snorts and turns toward him as he dries his hands. “Do you _really_ believe that?”  
Sitting at the table, Curt frowns, opening one of the files. “I'm not saying she's the best boss, or even person, out there, just that she's honest.”

Owen stares at him, then smiles while throwing the rag behind himself. Finally, he starts walking toward him.

“You know, Curt, I’ve always loved, and even admired, your ability to trust people. Actually,” he says while putting his palm on Curt’s cheek, “I find that naivety kind of charming on you. But, being a spy, doing what we do, you _can't_ actually believe that. Right?”  
“I do what we do precisely because I believe that. What would be the point, if I didn't? I mean… don't we have to believe we're the good guys?”

He intertwines his finger with Owen's, as much as a reflex as to ground him in his own point of view.  
Lately, Owen have been more and more critical of their job, their organizations, their superiors. Most of the time, Curt lets it slide, because he has something else on his mind, or because he's just happy to be with Owen and doesn't want to spoil it; but he can't deny that it bothers him more and more each time – sometimes, it feels like Owen’s disapproval is bordering on treason.  
Of course, Curt is not gonna turn him in, never, but right now, he needs a confirmation that they're still both on the same page.  
Owen sighs and sits next to him, not taking his hand off him.

“You're right, we _have_ to. But are we, really?”

Curt thinks about all the people they've killed, hurt, tortured, left for dead, together or separately; all of the widows and orphans they probably left in their wake, all the broken bodies and families that can be blamed on them; all the blood, all of the times he pulled the trigger without even an afterthought; no, there's nothing in him — in _them_ — that makes them good guys. But all of that, they do for the right reasons. Right? To make the world a better place, to make it safer for everyone else — they do it so other, regular people, don’t have to.

“We are,” he affirms. “We do what we do to protect the world from evil.”

Owen just looks at him without answering, so Curt keeps going.

“I mean, all of the people we stopped, we killed, we did it because they were bad guys, they had plans to endanger us, people, the world! We took them down so the world could be a better place.”

Owen drops his hand on their entangled knees, and stares at the wall behind Curt.

“Do you sometimes think about Jesus?” he eventually says.  
Curt frowns. “The Christian dude or the American traitor?”  
Owen laughs quietly. “The second one.”  
Curt shrugs. Truth be told, he mostly thinks about how Jesus brought Owen and him closer. “Sometimes. Why?”  
“Do you remember, when you interrogated her, she said something along the lines of ‘there are no good guys’?”  
“Maybe.”  
“I've been thinking about it more and more, you know. I mean, that Igor, those guys I went after, they also thought, in their own point of view, that they were the good guys, right? And, I mean, all of these agencies, in the end, we all do the same job, except on different sides, but we all work for people who don't give a rat's ass about us and who tell us nothing about their grand plans. We're just assets, pawns in their hands, easily replaceable, easily forgotten. We do the dirty work, we get the blood on our hands, and for what? So they can gloat about _making the world a better place_?” He snorts. “What a joke this all is.”

Curt stares at him long and hard before asking:

“Do you really believe that?”

Owen stares back and eventually sighs while sliding a hand through his hair.

“I don't know. I don’t know what to think anymore, love. I mean… for years, we've been taught to trust what we do, trust them, trust we’re working for the greater good, and all that shit, but then…” He averts his eyes and swallows. “Then you go missing, and nobody gives a damn about it and… It puts everything into a different perspective, you know?”

Owen's voice breaks, and Curt feels his own throat closing at the thought of his captivity; not because of his own pain, but of how hard it must have been for Owen – if Owen loves Curt as much, or even half as much, as Curt loves him. Curt knows for a fact that, if Owen were to go missing from his life, he wouldn't be able to recover, and he'd try everything in his power to find him.  
So he understands were Owen comes from, his pain, his feelings, his doubts, his anger; and, with a hand on his neck, he pulls him in and kisses him with all his love and despair, clinging to him for air and drowning in him at the same time. Owen's lips and hands answer with the same urgency and need, and soon they're breathless, disheveled, and Curt’s head feels both extremely light and heavy.  
So yeah, he understands everything Owen feels but, even now, forehead against forehead with the mean he loves more than anything in the world, he's still, deep in his heart and soul, a special agent of the CIA. He still truly believes he's doing some good in the world. He still believes the CIA, despite its methods, has the interest of the general population at heart. Owen's doubts, though justified, are not and will never be his.  
But he also knows that he doesn't want to lose Owen, not now, not over that, not when they're in such a good place, when they're such a good team. So he just says:

“I will never let you down. I promise.”  
“I know, love,” answers Owen in a breath while rubbing his thumb against Curt’s cheek. “I'll never let you down either.”

They've often evoqued that to each other, either with gestures, small or big, or with words that meant it without ever saying it, but that’s the first time they've actually promised this out loud in such clear words.  
And Curt feels a wave of relief cursing through him.

 

***

 

They both go through the files for what seems like hours. Since most of it is in Russian, and Owen's, though improved, still isn't as good as Curt's, Curt does the first reading and separates the papers in three piles: uninteresting, might contain something, and must be looked at urgently. Owen slowly reads his way through the last one, and though Curt is focused most of the time, he sometimes throws him a glance as they work side by side and finds it extremely adorable how Owen silencely mouthes the words as he reads them.  
Owen sometimes gets up to refill their coffee, and once or twice to give them some food. Each and every time, he puts a hand on Curt's arm, shoulder or back, sliding his fingers on his skin and clothes or kissing him on the head in a casual and comfortable way. That, this casual intimacy, the way they can just be around each other, work together with barely a word and still understand, still feel each other, is one of the things that Curt has grown to love more and more about their relationship. He has never felt so much at ease with anyone before, even when they're doing the most mundane things.  
At some point, while Curt gets more and more appalled by what he’s reading, Owen puts both his hands on his shoulders and, leaning to kiss him on the neck, whispers:

“I'm taking some food to our friend downstairs.”

Curt nods and feels him leaving more than he hears him.  
He keeps reading and, among bills for stationary, meeting reports and interview transcriptions, he sometimes finds proofs of corruption, names of high-ranked people in governments, unredacted mission reports, and other details that will highly interest Cynthia or Owen's superiors.  
He understands, with all that, why Igor left his country. And, nagging at the back of his mind, he can still hear Owen's words, and somehow Owen's doubts start to become his; is it the same on their side? If they dug deep enough in the CIA or the MI6 files, would they find the same type of dirty little secrets? Even if Owen seems to think so, Curt feels horrified at the mere thought of it. It can’t be. If Igor ran to them, that’s because they do things differently, right?  
Focused on the task at hand, it take him a while to notice that Owen still hasn't come back. He has no idea of the precise time at which he left, but he’s pretty sure it was more than half an hour ago.  
He gets up and, for a few seconds, his legs can’t hold him up and he has to stabilize himself on the table. He has been sitting for way too long. He is on his way to the basement when he hears yells coming from there, and he runs down the stairs.  
He finds Owen with his hands on Igor’s throat, and blood pouring through his fingers.

“Get a to a towel! Something! Quick!”

Curt's first reflex is to take off his shirt and throw it at Owen, who immediately puts it on the wound. The blood keeps flowing as Curt approaches.

“What happened?”  
“I swear I didn't do anything! I just untied one of his hands so he could eat, and he stabbed himself in the neck with it.”

Igor's eyes are revulsed and his mouth is gargling. He's not going to survive that.

Curt shakes his head. “You can let go.”

Owen turns toward Igor and, realizing the state he’s in, takes his hands and Curt's shirt off him. The blood keeps pouring, more and more slowly, even after Igor goes limp and they just stare in silence.

“What happened?” eventually asks Curt in a constricted voice.  
“I don’t know!” answers a breathless Owen. “He was just eating, and we were talking, and suddenly… It took me only a second to react, but it was already too late.”

Owen seems so distressed that Curt wants to hug him to help him settle, but he knows that, before everything, he has to act like a professional. So, after lightly squeezing Owen's shoulder, he moves toward the corpse and starts to examine it.  
He can indeed, under the blood, discern the four little holes made by the fork. It has almost been pushed up to the handle, into one of the arteries.

“What were you talking about?”  
“Why he left his country and how he got that intel you were reading.”  
“Did he look anxious?”  
“No more than before.”  
“What were you saying exactly when he stabbed himself?”  
“I was asking — again — of anyone knew he stole those files, and if so, who.”  
“And that's when he…”  
“ Yeah,” sighs Owen.

Curt straightens up and sighs too, before turning to Owen and finally taking him in his arms. He feels him relax and soon Owen’s arms are around him too. For à long moment, they just hug each other, until finally Curt asks:

“Are you alright?”  
“Yeah,” answers Owen in his neck. “I think so. I mean…”  
“It's gonna be ok,” says Curt, both for Owen's benefit and for his own.

After a while, he adds:

“I just don’t get why a guy would go through all this trouble just to kill himself.”  
“Yeah. Me neither.”  
“Maybe… maybe he thought we wouldn’t trust him and preferred to die rather than to be tortured. Maybe, if we—”  
“It’s not your fault, Curt,” interrupts Owen in an affirmative tone. “You didn't do anything wrong. You just acted as a spy should. Please don’t blame yourself, love.”

Owen then kisses him just behind his ear, right on that oh so sensitive spot.

“That guy did it to himself, Curt. We just did our job. When someone acts like that, there's nothing no one could have done to stop him. This is not on you, love.”

Curt lets these words sink in, trying his best to believe them.

“What are we gonna do, now?”  
“What we always do. Bury the bodies and make it look like we never were here. And, anyway, we still have the files. You said they were good, right?”  
“Yeah.”

Curt then stares down between them and hiver on the red stains on both of them.

“We’re all covered in blood, now.”

Owen puts both his hands on Curt's face and, leaning in to kiss him, whispers just against his lips:

“When are we not, love?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack White's tour is over (for me) (for now) (next round in October), and I finished this chapter on my phone, by small bits, in those oh so many trains and concert queues I hung out in these past two weeks.  
> But, now that I'm back home, the good news is (well, good, depends on how you look at it, since I'm back at work and all that) that I've planned to finish this story this summer (because I have other things to write and this has already been going on for way longer than planned), and i'm getting quite close to the end I think (you just have to look at the dates to say that ahah). So, if things go according to plan, the chapters will be coming out quicker!
> 
> And also yes, this chapter totally takes place in Johannesburg because of Mumford & Sons' EP.


	13. Wellington – January 1956

“That's the last time I'm asking this question politely: why are you here?” 

 

Leaning toward a black haired woman with an angry look, Curt smiles his best smile as Owen ties her hands behind her back. The woman's mouth stays tightly shut, so Curt crosses his arms and starts pacing in front of her. 

 

“You don’t wanna talk, uh? Fine, then how about _I_ talk, and you tell me how right I am?” 

 

Still no answer as Owen steps back, his job done. Curt continues. 

 

“Okay, so my guess is you Indians decided you didn't want to have anything to do with the British anymore, which I can completely understand, considering how controlling these assholes can be — we over the pond had some troubles getting rid of them as well —, so you decided to go after them not only in your own country, but in their other outposts as well. So you got here, snooped around a bit, found out about this hideout, and took it on yourself to blow it up to ashes. Am I right?” 

“Why do you care?” she spits back. 

“Oh, I don’t. But, see, my good friend over there, the handsome fella who caught you, he _does_ care, deeply, and if that’s important to him, well, that's important to me. That’s how friendship and alliances work, you see?” Again, he stops and leans toward her, hands on his knees. “You’re not supposed to stab your allies in the back, you know?” 

“The British are not allies, they're invaders who act like the whole world belongs to them.” 

“They do, don’t they?” answers Curt with a small look and smile toward Owen. “So you decided that, now that India is free of them, you'll be the real hero and go help other oppressed countries, like… New Zealand?” 

 

Again, she doesn’t say a word. 

 

“I’ll take that as a yes. But tell me: are you working on your own, or are you with an organization?” 

 

She averts her eyes, but Curt catches her chin in his hand and forces her to look at him. 

 

“Trust me, you want to answer my questions,” he whispers. 

She snorts. “What makes you think that?” 

“Because if you don’t, you’re gonna have to answer _his_ questions. And, believe me, _I’m_ the nice guy.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, love,” says Owen as he moves forward. He walks around the chair and puts an arm across Curt’s shoulders. “Though he’s right, you know,” he adds for the woman. “You’d rather have him ask questions than me. Unlike what his American nature dictates, he’s the delicate one.” 

“And you know those British people: they never tell you what’s wrong until they snap. And you don’t want to see him snap. I have, and I can tell you it’s not pretty.” 

“Not pretty for you, he means. _I_ ’m always pretty.” 

“Now, let me be clear: I totally get how you feel about British people. I mean, look at him. But there are some stuff _you just can’t do_.” 

“Like kidnapping people and tying them to a chair?” 

“Like that, yes,” smiles Owen. “Or trying to blow up a property of the British government.” 

“Or trying to take down not one, but two, trained agents.” 

“Yeah, don’t do that, love. That’s just foolish.” 

“Because, see, that’s how you end up _tied to a chair_.” 

“In a British-owned building.” 

“In the basement.” 

“Questioned by two of the best spies in the world.” 

“So basically: you don’t go after the British. Look at me! I’m stuck with him.” 

“He’s complaining a lot, but deep inside, he likes me.” 

“Are you two done with your comedic duo banter?” 

 

Curt and Owen exchange a look and a smile and, eventually, Owen says: 

 

“Oh, love. There is nothing _comedic_ or _fun_ in what we’re doing here.” 

“Not for you, at least.” 

“So, are you gonna tell us who you’re working for?” 

 

A smirk creeps on her lips. 

 

“Never.” 

“Well, it’s your choice, love.” 

 

And he knocks her out with a blow on the neck. 

 

 

*** 

 

 

“How do you wanna do it next time?” asks Curt, opening some cupboards and closing them without taking anything out – partly because most of them are empty. 

“Do you mind if I take the lead?” 

“Well, we’re here for you. I’m only here to provide backup—” He turns with a sly smile. “— and sweet company.” 

 

Owen laughs briefly and comes behind him, putting his arms around Curt’s waist. 

 

“And you do more than you part – especially on the second point,” he answers in his neck. 

 

Curt smiles, relishing in Owen’s warmth. 

 

“Why do you have a vase in there? I mean, do people often bring flowers in a MI6 building?” 

“No idea. Do you want me to bring you some flowers?” 

“At least it’d lighten up the place.” 

 

The building is in a heavy state of decrepitude, with mold on the ceiling, spiders in the corners and the paint falling from the walls. But, after all, secret agency safe houses are not known for their comfiness. 

 

“What? You don’t like the places where I take you on holidays?” 

 

Curt leans into Owen and caresses his jaw with the tip of his fingers. Owen kisses his neck, and Curt smiles. 

 

“I’d love it anywhere, if I’m with you.” 

 

He can barely believe he’s saying these kind of things – _and meaning them_ _._ Before Owen, he wouldn’t have thought this possible. Of course, he’s said some sappy stuff to his girlfriends but, somehow, they never felt _right_ – but, after all, they were _girl_ friends. Now? He could be anywhere, and doing anything, as long as he’s with Owen, he’s more than happy. Derelict warehouse? Russian territory? Meeting drug lords? Interrogating suspects? Blowing things up? Without Owen, it’s at best boring. But with him, it’s fireworks – sometimes literally. 

 

“You know,” whispers Owen behind his ear, “I was thinking… let’s give it one more try with here, and if It doesn’t work…” 

Curt frowns. “You want to kill her so soon?” he asks, turning around. 

 

Owen detaches himself from Curt, only keeping his hand in his, playing with Curt’s fingers. He looks around, as if looking for words, and eventually locks onto Curt’s eyes. 

 

“It’s not about killing her. It’s… we’ve known about these Indian revolutionaries for a while, and… let’s say we wouldn’t mind getting rid of them.” 

“Because they want to act as a substitution for the British now that the country’s independent.” 

“Something like that, yes. And I’ve got some kind of order to force them out of hiding if I can. So if this lady doesn’t talk, I was thinking… let’s blow this place up.” 

 

His smile is sort of mischievous. 

 

“What? Isn’t this…” 

“British property? Yes it is. But, listen.” 

 

Owen’s face and hands get animated, as always when he’s enthusiast about something or explaining something he’s proud of. He drops Curt’s hand and keeps going. 

 

“If we blow this place up, with her in it, we can pretend _she_ was responsible for it, and we came too late and couldn’t stop her. People on our side will think it was a suicide mission from her, but—” he’s not even focused on Curt anymore, his thoughts pulling him forward. “ _her_ side will know she didn’t do it, because those probably weren’t her orders. _So_ they will get angry, and try to hit us back, and therefore will have to expose themselves. Except this time, we’ll be waiting and ready to fight with full firepower.” 

“So you want to trick them into seeking revenge to better obliterate them.” 

“Basically, yes.” 

“By blowing up some British government property?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” 

Owen frowns, as if destabilized by the answer. “You’re up to it?” 

“I trust you. If you say it’s a doable plan, then let’s do it.” 

 

Feeling that Owen is still somehow tense, Curt smiles widely and adds: 

 

“Also, I’ve always wanted an opportunity to blow up some British property. You know, to live up to my American heritage.” 

 

Owen laughs and, with a hand on Curt’s neck, pulls him in for a kiss. 

 

“Let’s do it, then,” he smiles against his lips. 

 

 

*** 

 

 

“Why do you keep opening these cupboards?” 

“You’re still planning to blow this place up?” asks Curt back, closing another door with a bit too much strength. 

“Since she didn’t tell us anything valuable, yes.” 

“I saw a couple of bottles of Scottish whisky in here earlier. It’s be a shame to let those go to waste.” 

 

Owen pauses.  

 

“Are you planning on drinking them right now?” 

Curt shrugs. “Or taking them with us, I don’t care.” Catching Owen’s somewhat disapproving look, Curt adds: “Come on, it’s not that hard to set up a bomb, we could do it blindfolded with an arm behind our back and you know it.” 

 

Owen sighs too and comes to him. 

 

“Fine. Show me what you’ve got.” 

 

Curt takes an amber bottle out of the cupboard and passes it to Owen, who appraises it with a connoisseur look. 

 

“I’m not a big fan of those damn Scots, but I must admit they know how to make whisky. And that, especially, is a good bottle. Whoever was the agent who stocked it here, they knew what they were doing.” 

“You wanna taste it?” 

“I can’t really say no,” shrugs Owen. “Is there anything else we could save in those cupboards?” 

 

Curt opens a few more doors and says: 

 

“There a some cans of beans.” 

“Ooh, fancy!” comments Owen as he picks one. “You wanna have a dinner?” 

 

Curt looks around. 

 

“We have no stove. Or can opener. Or forks.” 

“Come on,” nudges Owen with his elbow. “We’re spies. We can make do. Plus, beans don’t need to be heated. 

 

Curt shakes his head with a smile at Owen’s enthusiasm and mutters: 

 

“You British people.” 

“So it’s a yes? Let’s make it a date. With cold beans and Scottish whisky. It’ll taste like home. Curt Mega, would you go out with me on the most refined date? I’ll have you eat a specialty from my country, drink the best of drinks, and I promise you the night will end with fireworks.” 

“And do you plan on kissing me at some point?” teases Curt. 

 

With a sly smile, Owen moves forward and, putting a hand on his hips, whisper against his lips: 

 

“I might even start by that.” 

 

Pulling away a few seconds later, Curt asks: 

 

“And what kind of fireworks are you talking about, exactly?” 

“Any kind you want, love.” 

 

 

*** 

 

 

They’re sitting against the wall, legs spread in front of them, each with a can of beans in their hand – savagely opened with a knife –, and the open bottle of whisky sits between them. Owen is licking the beans’ sauce on his fingers, while Curt still tries to eat in a proper manner despite the circumstances. 

 

“Isn’t it the best dinner you ever had?” asks Owen. 

 

Curt feigns thinking. 

 

“It ranks pretty high.” 

“Is it because I didn’t bring you flowers?” 

 

Curt laughs and takes the bottle to his mouth. 

 

“For my ninth birthday, my mum took me to this fair, with games and carousels and haunted houses and stuff. She let me chose what I wanted to eat, so I had a candy apple and a corn dog – in that order. _And then_ I threw everything up in the carousel. It was amazing.” 

 

Owen laughs and nudges Curt’s feet with his. 

 

“Well, the night is still young, so maybe I can top that. But I can’t promise there will be some throwing up, though.” 

“I can do without. These beans have been through my mouth once, and I don’t really want them back there, I must admit.” 

“Are you insulting one of my national most preeminent symbol?” 

“I’m just saying, I think you gotta be British to fully embrace the experience of eating cold beans out of a can.” 

 

He then takes a swig out of the bottle as Owen laughs. 

 

"You're right," Curt adds as he passes the bottle to Owen. "This is good whisky. It would have been a shame if we had let it go to waste." 

"It would, indeed," says Owen after putting it to his mouth. 

 

Curt watches him intently and asks, all joke gone from his voice: 

 

"Do you plan on telling her?" 

"Telling her what? About the whisky?" 

"No. That we're about to blow her to pieces." 

"That would be of no use. She's gonna be dead either way." 

"I think I would like to know. If I were in her situation, I mean." 

"You would like to know you were going to die? Why?" 

 

Curt shrugs. 

 

"I don't know. So I could try to do something about it, even if it's hopeless. And even if I can't, I could... make peace with it? You know what I mean?" 

 

Owen thinks for a few seconds, then says: 

 

"In our line of work, aren't we supposed to be ready to die anytime? If you need to make peace, shouldn't you be at peace all the time?" 

"I guess. But... you know. I like to be ready for things." 

"Would you be ready for death? If I came and told you, right now, that you're about to die in five minutes, would you be ready?" 

 

Curt thinks about it, taking the bottle back from Owen. 

 

"There was a time I would have said yes without an hesitation. But now..." He smiles at Owen. "Now I don't really want to."  He shrugs. "So, you know, if I were to die in the next minutes, I would like to know it. To get ready for it." 

 

Owen smiles and, slowly, caresses Curt's cheek with his thumb. 

 

"I know, love. But I've never been one for dwelling on things. I'd rather have it swipe me off." 

 

Curt winces. 

 

"I mean," continues Owen, "no matter what you do, or say, you always leave unfinished business. I'd rather not have to think about that before dying. You know, I always thought I'd go with a bang. I'd be accomplishing something great, and then, the enemy will get me, and I'll be gone, without having time to think or feel anything." 

 

Curt feels his throat tighten at the thought of Owen's death, so much he almost feels like crying. Instead, he swallows his tears and squeezes Owen's fingers in his. 

 

"Do you want to tell her she's gonna die?" asks Owen softly. 

"I think," answers Curt in a constricted voice, "I think she deserves to be able to reflect on her life and her actions." 

"Okay. Then we'll tell her," Owen squeezes back. 

 

 

*** 

 

 

"Okay, maybe we shouldn't have told her," concedes Curt as they leave the basement, closing the door on the woman wailing and yelling insults behind them. 

"She's tougher than we thought." 

"And with a wider range of insults." 

 

Once they're back upstairs, Curt pushes the half empty bottle of whisky into his backpack as Owen asks: 

 

"Are you ready to blow this place up, now?" 

"Yes. Ten minutes?" Asks Curt with a smile in his eyes. 

"Let's make it eight." 

"Seven it is." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I still plan on finishing this story this summer, despite appearances. It's just... writing is hard these days, you know.
> 
> Also, in the meantime, I decided to write a one-shot coffee shop AU, because of reasons probably (it seemed like a good idea at the time), and you can find it on my profile (how do you do links?) if you're interested. It's a good bit shorter than this one, slightly funnier and lighter, and also my Jack White obsession totally shows in it.
> 
> Concerning this story, I don't know how many more chapter I have left to write. Less than 5, I'd say (hello what is a plan), because I think I've been around almost everything I wanted to say and show (and I basically know how to add what's still missing), so yeah... the end is near.
> 
> And if you want to listen to the song "Wellington" by Pokey LaFarge, you should, because it's fun.


	14. New Delhi – June 1956

"You know, Curt, I still don't understand why the MI6 needs an American agent on this mission, and especially you, considering this is all their own mess they've created by themselves. I sent you because you had nothing better to do, but now I may need you back for something else."

 

Sitting next to Curt on the bed, Owen rolls his eyes and catches the wrist holding the watch.

 

"Hi Cynthia! It's always lovely hearing your voice."

"Owen! I may return the compliment. How are you doing? Still sticking with the MI6?"

"Who do you think I am, a traitor?"

"I wish. Anyway, do you really think Curt is necessary to your mission?"

"I wouldn't have asked for him if he wasn't. You know we work well together, him and I, love. Have you ever had to complain about our previous partnerships?"

"Well, I know I've never had to complain about _you_."

"Come on, Cynthia, darling, show some faith in me – and in Curt. You've read the reports. You know we're better when we're together. Please trust my instincts on that and leave him with me for now. I promise you won't regret it. _And_ I'll owe you one."

"You're tugging at my heartstrings, Owen."

" _Any_ favor you want, Cynthia. Except leaving the MI6, of course."

"Fine, you can keep Curt," she sighs. "I can do without him anyway. But I do intend on keeping you up on that favor, I hope you know that."

"I meant it, Cynthia, I meant it."

"Okay we gotta go bye!" Interrupts Curt, cutting the conversation.

"Why did you do that for?" asks Owen.

"Because why did _you_ do that for?"

"Did what?"

"Tell Cynthia you owe her a _favor_? Fuck, do you have the slightest idea about what you've gotten yourself into?" accuses Curt, standing up and pacing.

"I got myself into _having you stay here instead of going back to whatever Cynthia wants you to_."

"At what cost?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"No. And I never want to. A favor to Cynthia is a terrible thing to have."

 

Owen catches his wrist as he walks in front of him.

 

"Curt. Relax. I'll burn that bridge when I'll get to it. Until then, it's you and me, love."

 

Still frowning, Curt pinches his lips.

 

"Do you mean it?"

"Mean what? That favor to Cynthia? I—"

 

Curt snatches his arm back.

 

"No. _Love_. You call everyone that. Even suspects. Even _Cynthia_ , and I sure as hell know you don't _love_ her the slightest."

Owen smiles. "That's what bothering you? Out of all this conversation? Are you—"

"I am mostly concern by how now you _owe_ a fucking _favor_ to Cynthia, of all people, because of _me_ , but yeah, fact is, you call fucking _everyone_ 'love', so how am I supposed to feel about that?"

 

Truth is, he doesn't feel so good about it – he hasn't, not for quite some time, now. He knows Owen cares about him – that pact he just made with Cynthia speaks for itself – , but he has also seen Owen flirt with everyone and anyone, always, in any situation. And seeing him do that, hearing him call everyone _love_ or _darling_ , it somehow makes Curt doubt how much Owen cares about other people too. Maybe they're not as _special_ as he thinks? He has succeeded in convincing himself that he's not, as he first thought, one of Owen's many _,_ but maybe he is, after all? Maybe he's been living in delusion, because he wanted to believe it was true?

This time, Owen catches both of his hands and forces Curt to look at him.

 

"Curt. Stop. I see you spiraling. I sure don't love Cynthia, and I don't love any of the people we stop. But when I say it to you, I mean it. And if you want, I'll stop calling other people that. It's just a habit. I can lose a habit. For you. I can do anything for you. I can even make myself indebted to Cynthia. Okay, _love_?"

 

Eyes on their intertwined hands, Curt nods after a few seconds. He wants to believe Owen, he does. With all his heart and soul, with his guts and the rough skin of his fingers, with his mouth and with his eyes. But, despites everything that has happened, everything that has been said and done, shared and given, he has never quite lost that voice in the back of his head, which tell him everything will probably be over soon, very soon, when Owen realizes his mistake.

 

"I love you, Curt," adds Owen, trying to catch his eyes.

 

Curt's breath catches and he finally looks back at Owen. He searches, but only sees honesty and openness, truth and... and love, probably.

 

So he presses Owen's fingers in his, and answers in a breath, not looking away in case the moment might disappear: "I love you too."

 

 

***

 

 

"Adopt, adopt a gator!" "Come touch the snake, sir, come!" "You want to visit the temple? It is free, sir, I promise!" "Taste my curry, it is the best in town!"

 

Owen and Curt wriggle their way through one of the touristic streets of the city, escaping merchants, beggars and animals. Hidden behind their sunglasses, they scan the crowd, looking for enemies. After their Wellington ploy, as Owen suspected, the Indian revolutionary faction has manifested itself, claiming murder on one of theirs by the English. Of course, the MI6 has denied any involvement and accused them of destroying one of their properties, which only made them more mad and less cautious, revealing their presence in this part of New Delhi. Owen has jumped on the occasion and on a plane, requesting Curt's presence on the way.

Apparently, their intel has told them that some member of this fraudulous agency may have established shop behind, quite ironically, a spice shop. And, actually, spices shops are much less preeminent in this part of town than they would have thought. They've only seen two since the beginning of the street: the first was held by an old lady and didn't have a back door, and the second one let them visit the back of his shop without complaints, even insisting that they could sleep there – for a fee, of course – if they needed a place to stay. They actually had some trouble getting rid of that second guy, and it was only after they had put ten shops between them that he had stopped calling after them.

Curt discreetly elbows Owen, showing him the next spice shop with a nod.

Since last night, a sort of tension seems to have been lifted between them. Curt hadn't realized how much he doubted Owen, in term of their relationship, until then. But hearing those words, and seeing Owen prove it, again and again, hearing him repeating them until they mingled into just sounds, feeling Owen show him how true they were, it lifted a weight on his heart he didn't know was there. Now, he feels even more in sync with Owen, closer to him somehow, more in touch with his thoughts and emotions. It's as if they can communicate without words, almost without moves; as if, just standing next to each other, they can understand each other completely.

The lady tending to the shop Curt has seen seems very careful of her surroundings and a bit jumpy – which is confirmed when a voice from behind her calls her and she turns briskly.

 

"Aini! Get inside!"

 

With a small pressure on Curt's wrist, Owen moves forward. Curt takes off his sunglasses and tries not to watch him go, slowing his pace. When he reaches the bags of colored powder, Owen is in full flirt with the Aini girl, operating his charm at his maximum, all smiles and swift moves. The girl seems uncomfortable, though, and appears to be looking around for an escape – which doesn't suit Curt at all. If he wants to sneak in the back, he can't have her looking around.

 

"Aini!" Calls the voice again. "Get here!"

 

The girl looks relieved to have an excuse to escape Owen, and Curt wonders how they're gonna get in. But, a few seconds later, after some inaudible yelling in the back, a big round man comes out and walks straight to Owen.

 

"What did you say to my daughter?" He grumbles, angry.

"Nothing, sir, I was just enquiring about the price of those spices. What is this one, over there? The color is so flamboyant! And this smell! I gotta get some of those home."

 

Owen starts monologuing, not letting the man speak a word, and Curt takes it as his queue to act. Smoothly, he walks toward the small shop and, making the most of the man having his back on him, sneaks into the back behind the curtain.

The room he finds himself in is just a small corridor, empty of people and furniture, and only big enough to fit one person. There are three doors: on his left, on his right and in front of him. Some music comes from his left, an ajar door, and he's pretty sure he can hear the girl humming to it. In front of him, there's only a pearl curtain separating him from the other room, and he sees nothing but what looks like a dining room. On his right, the door is closed, and no sound escapes. He tries the handle.

 

The door opens onto a dark staircase going down, and some instincts tell him he's got the right one. Of course, this could also be just a basement, with spices stored there, but his guts feel like he's onto something. He sneaks in and closes it behind him, after leaving a small mark on the wood next to the handle – so Owen will know where to look.

 

He waits for a few seconds, both for listening and for getting used to the darkness, and takes out his gun before slowly creeping down, one step at a time. It’s still silent, but Curt feels there is something – or rather, someone – creeping down there, hiding.

The staircase turns slightly, and Curt stops when the small echo of his steps sounds like he’s reached the bottom – or, at least, a room. Still holding his gun and his breath, he waits again for some sound, but nothing comes – whoever is here probably heard him come.

 

Suddenly, the light is turned on, and only his quick reflexes allow him to avoid the bullet fired his way by crouching. By the time his eyes get used to the light, he sees a silhouette launching at him, probably trying to jump over him to reach the exit. He stands up briskly, colliding with the person as they reach him, and they both tumble in the stairs. Curt feels the stairs poking at his back, but refrains the pain to hold back his assailant. With his knee, he punches the man in the crotch and feels him grunting and slumping over him. He pushes him with all his strength and the man tumbles backward, falling on a pile of crates as Curt stands up as fast as he can, holding him at gunpoint. The man tries to crawl away from him, but Curt walks toward him and the man is pretty soon blocked by the wall of crates. Curt smirks when the man stops, a scared look in his eyes.

 

“Tell me: what are you afraid of?”

 

 

***

 

 

Owen finds him there a few minutes later, the man cornered to the wall. He stops in the stairs behind Curt.

 

“Good job, love! Who is that sweet man down there?”

“I don’t know his name, but he’s scared enough to pee his pants, so he probably has something to hide.”

“Well, let’s find out, then,” says Owen as he goes down and stands next to Curt. “Oh, by the way, I locked the big man and the sweet lady in the kitchen upstairs, they did also seem very shady, so we’ll have a go at them later. In the meantime...” He walks toward the man and crouches I front of him. “What’s your story, man?”

 

 

***

 

 

“Well, the good thing is, we busted some heavy drug trafficking. But the bad thing is they weren’t the revolutionaries we were looking for.”

 

Owen talks to his boss into his watch, pacing the room while Curt sits on the bed, watching him. He likes the fact that, though Owen seems really focused on his report, he still smile or winks at him when he catches his eye, and sometimes brushes his cheek with his thumb when he passes next to him.

 

Curt made his own call to Cynthia right before, and it sure wasn’t as cordial as this one. Sure, Owen’s boss seems a bit tense, but Cynthia’s annoyance with Curt has not lessened over the years. In time, it’s true she leans a bit more toward ignoring him, which suits him just fine – or, at least, he prefers that to her constant yelling. Of course, she still does yell sometimes, like she did earlier, but when Owen is with him, he just chips in and suddenly Cynthia is all sweet and sugar, almost giggling through her compliments and totally forgetting about Curt. Of course, if he’s totally honest with himself – or with Owen, for that matters –, Curt would have much preferred her to be proud of him and acknowledge his achievements, but with time, he’s gotten used and kid of numb to her accusing tone and harsh words. He knows how it’s gonna be, so he just braces himself and gets through it. With Owen next to him, it’s easier, and not just because Owen deviates Cynthia’s attention – he deviates Curt’s too.

 

“Fuck”, mutters Owen as he sits next to him.

 

He runs his hand through his hair and leans forward, elbows on his knees. Curt caresses his neck.

 

“What’s up?”

“You weren’t listening?”

“I dozed off. Sorry.”

 

Owen straightens up and smiles weakly.

 

“That’s okay. It’s just… Bill wants me back tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“He says I’m compromised for this mission. That who knows what that woman in New Zealand transmitted to her team, and that now we’ve made all of this ruckus they probably know we’re here and who we are. He’s sending out someone else.”

“When do you have to leave?”

“I’ve got to catch a plane tomorrow morning at 9.”

 

Curt checks his watch.

 

“That leaves us ten hours.”

 

Owen looks at him.

 

“For what?”

“You wanna catch these guys, right?”

“Yes. You think we can do it in ten hours?”

 

Curt smiles widely and intertwines their fingers on Owens knee.

 

“Make it eight.”

 

 

***

 

 

“This isn’t the street we were in before,” whispers Owen.

“Yes, we’re in the one behind.”

 

It’s partly because of the night, but the street they’re in looks nothing like the one they crossed this morning. There’s no shop, no colors, no tourists. There’s only them, and the occasional wild cat running at the sound of their footsteps.

 

“See?” says Curt as he points to small doors. “These are backdoors to the shops on the other side. We can sneak in and keep going with our researches without having to deal with people.”

“Are you joking? That’s the best part.”

 

Curt tries to convey his “Seriously?” in his look. That must work, because Owen laughs.

 

“It takes time,” sighs Curt. “And we have only —” he checks his watch, frowning to read it in the dark “eight hours left.”

“I thought you said we could do it in eight hours.”

“Then we have six hours left.”

 

He smiles, and catches Owen smiling back.

 

“Remember the first spice shop, with the old lady?”

“Yeah. It didn’t have a back door.”

“That’s the thing. I’m sure it did.”

Owen frowns. “Why?”

“You know, those curtains, in the store? That kinda delimited the tiny shop into tinier areas?”

“Yeah?”

“They were flowing with the wind. But the wind was coming from behind.”

“So there must be an opening,” smiles Owen, eying Curt approvingly.

“And I’d say it should lead… right there.”

 

Curt stops in front of a small wooden door. He hopes he’s right. He’s pretty sure he is, but he also was pretty sure earlier about the other shop – though something was indeed fishy there, even if it wasn’t what they were looking for. But he doesn’t want to disappoint Owen – not when Owen gives him that look, the one with admiration and stars in his eyes. Not when Owen’s in trouble with his boss and Curt could be the one who saves his day.

He takes out his gun, and hears Owen do the same behind him. Slowly, in the silence of the night – which is not really silent, not in this city, not even in this empty street –, he puts his hand on the handle and pushes it.

 

Behind, the rooms is dark, and he doesn’t discern anything. He listens for almost a minute, then slightly shakes his head as he hears nothing, signals Owen to stay put with one move of his hand, and takes one step inside the room.

He stays still another good handful of seconds then, not putting his gun away, pushes a button on his watch, bringing a small ray of light into the room.

 

It looks like a kitchen – and it’s empty. There’s a fire on the side, a table at the center, a bag of rice against a wall and some racks of drying spices and vegetables above. It looks frugal, but functional. In front of him, he sees another door, that must lead into the shop, but, more interesting, there’s a ladder in the corner, leading to the roof or an attic, and a trap on the floor – with a clear sign that the bag of rice was moved from above it.

 

He signals Owen that it’s clear, and his lover sneaks in beside him. With the ray from his watch, he indicates the trap briefly, and Owen nods. He signals Owen to wait here and, without waiting for an answer, turns off the light. He knows Owen will complain later about Curt keeping all the fun to himself while he just waits here, but Curt doesn’t know where he’s stepping in and doesn’t want Owen to get hurt.

Navigating the room in the dark, with the map he drew in his mind to guide him, he reaches the trap and hears it with the way his steps echo. He puts his gun back in his trousers as he crouches and, with his fingers, traces the outline of the wood panel. He feels the latch and, slowly, pulls on it. It isn’t locked with anything, so either someone’s already down there, or these people lack caution.

He goes very slowly, afraid the trapdoor is going to squeal, but no, it has apparently been oiled properly. Once he lets it go on the floor, he feels around inside, looking for a ladder, a rope, stairs, anything to climb down on. He feels the beginning of a ladder, and is sent back to his first descent into a basement, earlier that day – was it really the same day? He braces himself before going down: who knows what – or who – might wait for him downstairs? Somebody jumped on him earlier, and it was just a drug dealing business, and he was standing on solid stairs. This time, if he’s right, he might be going much deeper – pun intended. Something in him stirs for a drink, but now is not the time and place for that. So he just finds the energy in Owen’s presence, and how much Owen relies on him for this. How, for once, he could be Owen’s hero, instead of the other way around.

 

So he goes down, step by step, hand hovering never too far from his gun, just in case.

And he does well, because, just as he steps on what he soon understands was the last bar, someone pulls on his legs and he finds himself faceplanting on the floor. He feels some intense pain in his nose, followed by what probably is blood flooding over his mouth, and he barely refrains an insult as he’s dragged on the floor by hands on his ankles. He catches his gun and, managing to turn around so he’s on his back, he shoots blindly in the direction of his assailant. A yelp of pain answers him, before freeing one of his legs. He kicks the person with it and they fall backward, leaving him some time to get up and flash the ray of light from his watch, to try and gather his surroundings now that his presence is no longer a secret. His nose hurts like hell and he’s probably losing all of his blood, but he can’t focus on that right now. Right now, he must stop this person from attacking again, find out if there are others, and protect Owen.

He hopes Owen didn’t come down and reveal himself when he heard all that noise – it’s best if Curt’s attackers think he’s alone. Just to reassure Owen and let him he’s alive, Curt says:

 

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?”

 

His voice sounds awfully nasal to him, but loud enough so Owen has heard him.

Around him, from what he can see with the tiny ray of his watch, the room is very small – smaller even than the other basement, but there are no crates in it. The other person – a man – is standing a few feet from him, on the other side of the room, with the hand on his bleeding shoulder. There’s only the two of them, and the room is empty.

Curt approaches slowly, still pointing at him with his watch and his gun.

 

“Make a move and I shoot,” he says, hoping the man understands English – hoping himself can still be understood with that broken nose.

 

The man just whines, head down, hugging his perforated shoulder. What was he doing here, alone in that basement? Hiding, probably. But from what? Or, from who?

 

Some fighting noises erupt from upstairs, so Curt doesn’t take the time to ask himself – or the man – too many questions, and he just knocks him out with the handle of his gun, barely waiting for him to collapse on the floor before turning back to the ladder with the light off and climbing it as fast as possible.

Upstairs, the light coming from the open door shows Owen fighting against two opponents. Apparently, none of them heard Curt coming, and he takes this opportunity to repeat his action on the man downstairs and knock the closer one on the back of his neck. The assailant stumbles and falls, and the Curt points a gun at his head as Owen manages to hold the other one with an arm around his neck. Facing Curt, with the guy as a shield between them, he smiles, his teeth sparkling in the dim light, and says:

 

“I almost waited, love.”

“I was delayed,” answers Curt blandly, not taking his eyes off the person squirming on the ground. “Do they speak English?”

“No idea. Do you speak English?” asks Owen in the ear of the man he’s holding.

 

The man starts talking a language that is definitely not English, so Curt arms his gun and says, without looking at him:

 

“Answer his question in a language we can understand or I shoot your friend.”

“Yes!” he answers urgently and with a very strong accent. “Yes, I speak English!

“Good,” says Curt bluntly without moving. “Were you waiting for us?”

“No, we just passed by and—”

 

Curt’s finger gets closer to the trigger.

 

“I want the honest answer.”

“Yes!” says the man as Owen tightens his hold on his neck. “Yes! We saw you earlier today and thought you might come back.”

“Is the man in the basement with you?”

“Yes!”

“The old lady who was in the shop this morning. Is she with you?”

“No! She’s just…”

“She’s just what?” snaps Curt.

“She’s my grandma!”

“And where is she, now?”

“Not here. I swear!”

“Are there more people than you?”

“Not around here!”

“And elsewhere?”

The man stays silent, so Owen whispers in his hear: “Answer, or he shoots.”

“There are people elsewhere,” he whispers.

 

Curt nods, as if to himself.

 

“Let’s put them in the basement and see what we do.”

 

Owen pushes his man shield toward the trap and forces him to climb downstairs, while Curt rolls the one of the floor with his foot. When he sees their face, he realizes she is a woman, but still keeps pushing her unconscious body toward the hole.

 

“Be careful under there,” he announces just before rolling her in.

 

As the basement is barely higher than a man, the fall will not be fatal to her, but she may hurt something. He pushes her as gently as he can; he doesn’t want to hurt her too badly – not yet. When he hears the _thud_ of her body hitting the ground – or, rather, the man standing under the ladder –, he puts his gun back in his belt as Owen pulls the ladder up, and then he closes the trapdoor. Owen slides the bag of rice over it. As he looks at Curt in the light for the first time since he came up, his smile disappears and he swears:

 

“Shit, what happened to your nose?”

“It broke,” answers Curt matter-of-factly. “I need to put it back in place.”

“Do you want me to do it?”

“I can do it myself,” shrugs Curt.

“I know. But do you want me to do it?”

 

Curt looks at him and discerns the concern in his eye. He nods.

With a hand on his arm, Owen guides him toward the door to have more light, and makes him sit on the floor. Searching the pockets inside his coat with one hand, the other not leaving Curt’s wrist, he crouches in front of him and pulls out a small rope.

 

“Bite that. We don’t want to attract more people than we already have.”

 

The rope tastes like sweat, dried leaves and a little bit of Owen between Curt’s teeth. He bites it as he feels Owen’s fingers delicately touching around his nose, trying to evaluate the damage and how to fix this.

 

“This is gonna hurt, love, “ whispers Owen as his fingers become more pressing.

 

Then there’s a sudden flash of pain and some probably deafening _crack_ , and Curt suddenly regrets his previous pain – he’d gotten used to it. He hears himself moaning over the _crack_ , and soon Owen’s hands are all over his face, his cheeks, his eyes, his hair, and Owen is kissing his forehead, murmuring: “It’s done, love. It’s over, now.”

One of his hands removes the rope from Curt’s mouth, while with the other, he pulls Curt toward his chest and rocks him slowly.

 

“It’s over, love. It’s over,” he repeats in a calming tone.

 

Curt moans again as his nose brushes Owen’s shirt, but the pain subdues, slowly. He wills the tears away from his eyes as he clutches Owen’s jacket in his hands. Owen keeps patting his hair, whispering in his ear and kissing his temple.

When his breathing gets back to something close to normal, he withdraws, and Owen’s hands fall on his shoulders. Owen stares at him intently.

 

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

 

Owen purses his lips.

 

“Curt. What did I tell you? You can serve that bullshit to anyone you want, but not me.”

 

Curt sighs and averts his eyes. He knows he can trust Owen, he will always trust him, but admitting his weaknesses to him has not gotten easier with time. His rational mind know that Owen won’t think any less of him because he’s in pain over a broken nose but, somehow, he feels like he still has something to prove to him – and always will. For Owen, he wants to be his best self; he wants to be strong, invincible, unbreakable – and not bothered by something as trivial as a broken nose.

 

“It hurts,” he finally says. “But I can get back to work. There’s probably more blood than necessary. Don’t worry.” He manages a faint smile and caresses Owen’s cheek with the tip of his fingers. “Now, what do we do with these guys downstairs?”

 

 

***

 

 

Since they don’t have time for proper questioning, they decided to leave two of their captives – the woman and the guy Curt shot – in the basement, with a makeshift bomb over the closed trap door, designed to explode if they’re not back in time to stop it, while they ask – order – the other guy to take them to the rest of the gang. There is a bit of resistance on every part, but some threats and hits manage to tone them down.

 

They walk in the shadow of the man they’ve freed, trying to hide from watchful eyes. He might be leading them into a trap, they discussed it, but they hope he fears enough for his friends to do as they told him to.

He leads them around the city for about half an hour, and Curt notes some landmarks as he feels the clock ticking, to make sure he’ll be able to find his way back. Next to him, he sees Owen mapping the city as well.

They’re both silent, with their gun out, ready for any eventuality. From time to time, they communicate their thoughts with a look, a nod, or a tap of the hand, just to make sure they’re on the same page, or to signal something to the other.

 

Eventually, their guide stops in front of a house. He stands there, not knocking or anything, and Curt and Owen exchange a look. That must be it.

As swiftly as they can, the approaches and take place on each side of the door, guns at the ready, backs on the wall. The man briefly looks at them, then knocks, in a rhythm that is probably an established pattern. After a few seconds, someone slightly opens the door, then speaks a few words that are definitely not English.

 

As their guide opens his mouth to answer, Curt nods at Owen and the both push him out of the way and, guns pointed forward, push the door open. Owen points toward the guy who opened the door, while Curt knocks out their guide, who collapses on the floor.

 

“Surprise! We’re here,” smiles Owen.

 

The man in front of him puts his arms in the air and slowly backs inside the room. With his foot, Curt closes the door behind them.

In the dark room are four other people, and two doors lead out of it, one on their right and one in the back. While Owen still holds the man at gunpoint, Curt quickly searches the others – three men and one woman – for weapons and takes out a knife and a gun. Clearly, these people were not waiting for them, and might not even be very well equipped in general. Curt gives the gun to Owen, who positions himself so he can see the whole room, while Curt goes through the first door.

 

It’s only something that looks like a small bedroom, and which is empty, so he gets out quickly. In the main room, it’s still silent, except for Owen’s occasional orders. Curt shakes his head to him, then goes through the second door, which leads to a corridor. He passes a few more empty rooms, until he gets to a staircase going up – that’s a welcome change, considering how staircases going down didn’t bring him much good today. He still climbs it carefully, and arrives on a flat roof. It’s empty, but it’s also easy, from there, to jump to the next houses and basically cross the town. Did someone hear them enter and flee? He goes back down and blocks the door to the staircase, so that no one can enter from here and take them by surprise.

 

Back in the main room, nothing much has changed.

 

“Was there somebody else here with you?” he asks.

 

No one answers. He nods at Owen. His lover grins in return, and throws him his second gun before grabbing the wrist of the man who welcomed them inside. Holding his arm up, for everyone to see, he catches his little finger and, in a swift gesture, breaks it. It cracks loudly as the man moans and almost collapses.

 

“Let’s make things clear,” says Curt. “Every time you don’t answer, my friend here will break someone’s finger. And if that’s not enough, you still have knees, and ears, and eyes, that I’m pretty sure we can do something about. Do you understand me?”

 

Still no noise, but Curt can see the fear in their eyes.

 

“I said, do you understand me?”

 

One of them slowly nods, followed by another.

 

“Good. No, I’m gonna repeat myself, and this will be the last time: Was there anybody else here with you?”

“Durai,” says the woman in a raspy voice.

“Okay, good. Who is Durai, and where did he go?”

 

She shakes her head. Owen starts making a move to break another one of the man’s fingers, but the woman stops him.

 

“No! I don’t know! He was in the back. He probably ran away by the roofs.”

“Ran where? Did he go get some help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“And where would that be?”

“I don’t know where they are. Only Durai.”

“Do anyone else of you know where _they_ are?” asks Curt, pointing his gun at all of them.

 

They all shake their head this time. The man Owen is holding yelps again as Owen breaks another one of his fingers.

 

“And now,” asks Curt, “do you know where _they_ are?”

“I swear we don’t!” says a man who has no accent.

“But what you may know is, who are _they_?”

 

Their captive all exchange a look, but don’t answer straight away.

 

“Oh, just so you may know,” chimes in Owen, “remember your other friends you sent after us? Well, if we don’t come back, they’re gonna explode. So you’d better help us, cause we’re on a timer, here – and so are your friends.”

 

They exchange another look, and the woman opens her mouth.

 

 

***

 

 

The group they found are, as Curt and Owen thought, part of the same revolutionary group than the woman they met in New Zealand. nds they soon find out that, though they like to pretend they are professional spies and deserve to be recognized as such, they seem to be very much disorganized and very little armed. The gun Curt found on them when he searched them seems to be the only one they had in this house. They look more like a band of people unhappy with the way things are, who decided to rebel with what they had and found and hoped to be taken seriously.

 

And, obviously, this led nowhere. Or, rather, this led them into this very situation, where they are facing two heavily armed and trained spies and their only choice is to crumble in front of those spies and tell them what they want.

So they told Curt and Owen everything: who they are, what they want, and who are those “they” that this “Durai” fled to. Apparently, these six – plus the two in grandma’s basement – are just low level members, which explains the lack of guns, and Durai was the leader of the small gang. He was the one who made the connection between this group and “they”, the leaders of the movement, who give orders and control everything. None of the people present in the room has ever seen “they”, and “they” are said to meet in a different place each time, so they can’t be traced and found.

To Curt, all of that seem like a lot of bullshit from a bunch of people who want to be much more important than they are. Nevertheless, for Owen’s sake, he’s ready to go after them – clock is ticking, after all – and take them down with all of his firepower.

 

But, after a quick conversation, Owen convinces him, given the little time they have left, to stay here and keep an eye one their captives, while himself will go look for this Durai and those bosses with the little clues they have. Curt wanted to go, but Owen insisted that, with his still sore and bloody nose, he’d taken enough damage as it was and was a bit scary to look at, which should be just fine to watch their prisoners.

 

“Plus,” added Owen, “It’s my mission, and though I truly appreciate all of your help, I should be doing this myself, you know?”

 

Curt understands his logic, and he understands why Owen needs to prove himself to his own boss, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to protect Owen and to make sure he’s safe, to be certain no one can hurt him. But when Owen asks him something, he can hardly say no so, of, course, he agrees to the plan. He wants to hug him, kiss him, tell him to be safe, wrap him in his embrace to give him protection before he goes, but they’re in a room full of strangers – enemies –, so he just purses his lips, nods intently and whispers:

 

“Be careful.”

“I always am, love,” smile Owen.

 

And, as if without noticing, he brushes their knuckles as he checks his weapons and, turning his back to the others, winks. Curt feels slightly comforted.

 

And now, Owen has been gone for a bit more than an hour, they have only five left – three, according to Curt’s timeline –, and there’s still no sign of him coming back. The timer they set on the bomb is going to detonate in two and a half hour if they don’t do anything about it and, truth be told, Curt doesn’t _really_ want these people to die. Sure, they wouldn’t give him a broken heart like they did a broken nose, but he’d rather have them alive and able to testify than not. Owen had him agree that, should he not be back by then, Curt would have to take their new prisoners to the old ones and wait for him there. If Owen still didn’t show up, they Curt will let the bomb explode on all of them save one, the most important, whoever that may be in that gang of clueless idiots, whom he was to take for questioning and for bringing to Cynthia and Owen’s boss.

 

He hopes it doesn’t come to that.

He hopes Owen will come back.

More than that, he even hopes that Owen will find out those leaders, with the little intel he has, and be able to bring them to his boss.

 

Because, if Owen doesn’t come back, Curt will sure as hell forsake their plan and go look for him.

 

If, at first, he tried to extract more information from their prisoners, he quickly abandoned that given their lack of – interesting – answers. Besides, he’s too busy brooding over Owen’s absence to be able to focus his energy onto anything else.

One hour before the end of the countdown, he gather his captives and, making sure their hands are tied behind their backs, he pushes them outside to go back to the spice shop.

 

Going back there asks even more stealth than coming from it earlier, since this time he’s herding his gang of captives and has to make sure none of them escapes, and none of the people that could be around at that hour of the night sees them. They have to be very, very slow, check at every corner and hide in every shadow. Curt has to be threatening at least one of them with his guns at all times, and he keeps questioning why he ever agreed to that fucking stupid plan in the first place.

_Because Owen fucking asked._

He pushes the voice of wisdom to the back of his mind, where it belongs, but it keeps coming back.

_Pathetic, huh? You like to pretend you’re a tough spy and all, but when your boyfriend tells you to jump, you ask “how high?” and then proceed to jump even higher. Don’t you have a backbone?_

Owen is right, he answers back. He made a rational decision, and I agreed to it because it was the right one. Dangerous, yes, but I’m used to danger. I’m a fucking spy. I know what I’m doing, and I’m trusting a colleague on his better judgment.

 

A colleague with whom he has been working long enough to trust.

 

Besides, living on the edge is their way of life, right? Taking risks, getting through situations when anyone else would have thought impossible to do so, carrying improbable plans to their end; that’s what they do, and that’s what they’re _damn_ good at.

If Curt is completely honest, his anger comes more from his worry about Owen than about the situation, which is far from being the worst he’s ever found himself in.

 

Proof comes when, after a few false alarms and some frights, they eventually get to the spice shop. Curt pushes everyone in the basement but the woman, making sure the ones they left there were still alive. And then, again, he waits, not taking his gun off the woman. He briefly checks his watch; there are only twenty-two minutes left.

 

At fourteen, he is past the hesitation to blow this place and everyone in it up. He would do it right now if it could allow him to go and look for Owen. He knows he has to stick to the plan, but he’s _that close_ to start pacing around – and he can’t afford to look bothered. So, instead, he fishes for the flask inside his jacket and takes it to his lips for a couple of swigs. He catches the woman’s judging look, but doesn’t give it any importance – what should he care what she thinks?

The burn of whisky doesn’t exactly soothe him, but it brings him a form of clarity – it gives him back some faith.

 

At nine minutes, the faith is gone. He knows he has to move quickly if he doesn’t want to get blown up in the explosion, but he doesn’t want to miss Owen either; he’ll wait until the very last minute.

 

At six, he takes another swig and definitely starts pacing.

 

At four, he tells the woman to get up. There’s no time to lose, now, they can’t afford to stick around. For a minute, he toys with the idea of leaving her to die with her friends, so he can be free to go after Owen, but he knows he has to stick to the plan. He can’t focus on his personal interests right now; this is bigger than Owen and him, whether they want it or not. He checks the bomb and its timer one last time, then starts walking toward the door, shielding his body with the woman. She resists a bit, and asks urgently:

 

“Are we really leaving them?”

“Can they tell me anything useful?” he asks in return.

 

She doesn’t answer and he pushes her in front of him, gun between them.

The door opens in front of them.

 

“Leaving already?” asks a silhouette he’d know everywhere.

 

Relief flushes through Curt, but he tries to keep his tone unphased as he pushes to woman toward Owen and answers:

 

“Thought you’d never come. Hold her while I defuse the bomb.”

 

Owen catches the woman as Curt turns his back to him and kneels over the trap. The timer is under three minutes.

He appreciates Owen’s silence as he works his way around the cables, using his memory, instincts and the light ray from his watch.

When he’s done, he starts breathing normally again and opens the trap.

 

“Bring her in,” he gestures Owen.

 

Together, they push her in the hole, then Curt closes it and puts the bag of rice back on the hatch. Finally, he stands up, turns toward Owen and, looking at him through the early morning light, catches his fingers.

 

“How are you?” he whispers.

 

Owen smiles, briefly presses his fingers, and lets them go while he averts his eyes, checking his guns.

 

“I’m sorry I was almost late. I thought you would have already gone.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

 

Owen looks back at him and smiles again. He pauses in what he’s doing and, taking a step toward Curt, pulls him in an embrace.

 

“Sorry I got you worried,” he whispers in his hair and Curt embraces him back. “I did as quick as I could.”

“I know,” sighs Curt, letting go of all his anxiety and relishing in Owen’s warmth and smell. “What happened?”

 

Owen lets him go and they both walk closer to the door to get a better view on what may be coming, and Owen says:

 

“I found them.”

“And?”

“I took care of them.”

 

Curt stares at him, then nods as Owen stares back.

 

“You learned anything interesting?”

“More like confirmed my suspicions.”

 

Owen looks out through the door. His profile, drawn by the light turning pink and the sounds of the neighborhood slowly waking up, seems detached.

 

“You don’t seem happy about it.”

 

Owen sighs and looks at his feet.

 

“I called Bill on my way back.”

“What did he say?”

“He still wants us out. At least, me.”

“But we found them!”

“I know.” He looks at Curt with a sad smile and catches his fingers, intertwining them with his own. “We did what we had to do, love. But we can’t always win.”

“You deserved to,” says Curt softly, pressing their palms together.

“We did.”

 

They share a silent smile for a few seconds.

 

“The new agents are already in town. They should join us here any minute, and then we’ll help them move the prisoners to a safer location before taking our leave.”

“And then _they_ are gonna get the praise for what we’ve done,” spits Curt with disdain, looking at the street outside turning a light orange.

“We know what we did, love. And we’ll make sure our bosses know too. That’s all that matters. Right?”

 

Curt shrugs.

Owen presses his fingers, forcing Curt to look at him.

 

“Thank you. For all you did tonight.”

“You would have done the same.”

“That’s why I appreciate you doing it. I wouldn’t have done it without you, love. Not in eight hours.”

 

Curt smiles a wicked smile.

 

“We’re the best agents the world has ever known, right?”

“Yes we are,” smiles back Owen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me when writing this chapter: when will this end I feel like I've been at it for a million pages  
> me 7.8k words and 14 pages later: oh okay that's why
> 
> Also this was probably "Curt gets ambushed in a basement" day idk
> 
> For those of you who may have read my other fic, [Explosive Blunderbuss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354675), I made a playlist for that and put the link back there (yes I learned how to do links) if you're interested. So now I might make one for this one as well because I keep talking about songs somebody stops me
> 
> And I've been thinking about this story and its end for a while now, and I've finally agreed with myself that there will be three more chapters (or two chapters and one epilogue idk) (three parts anyway) and then it will be the end. FINALLY.  
> So now let's hope that these next chapters are not as lon as this one because I am too old for that now.


	15. Trondheim – November 1956

“What time is it again?”

“Three thirty,” answers Owen after briefly looking at his watch.

“Way too early to be the middle of the night,” mumbles Curt.

 

Owen huffs and presses his hand on the back of Curt’s neck.

 

“You sweet summer child. In England, we also have that type of short nights, especially in the north – though it’s not as bad as here.”

“I thought you were a Londoner.”

“I am. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been around my country.”

“Whatever,” shrugs Curt, pushing back Owen’s hand. “I don’t plan on spending anymore time than necessary in this fucking iceberg.”

“Good. Me neither.”

 

They’re leaning over a table, in a warehouse overlooking the fjord. The place looks abandoned but, of course, it’s not – it’s a CIA outpost. Earlier, when there was still a bit of sun – and yet the most he could have over there –, Curt spotted some bright blue water down there. With its deeper shades and white froth, he could almost have said it was beautiful.

And probably ice cold deadly, too.

But, right now, he probably wouldn’t be able to see his own fingers in this pitch black darkness. And since he’s tired, cold, a bit hungry, and subsequently grumpy, he knows he’s not the best company for Owen.

Though Owen himself seems a bit out of it. Maybe he doesn’t do as well with night and cold as he wants Curt to believe?

 

On the table in front of them lays a map of the country, some photographs and a bunch of handwritten letters. Sending them here, in this deadly winter, was Cynthia’s idea: apparently, one of their informants in this town may have gone rogue, and she wants them to check it out – and, if necessary, take her out. The letters and photographs are the one she sent, and dots on the map indicates places she’s been.

Curt sighs and, brushing everything away, falls on one of the uncomfortable chairs the place provides.

 

“I don’t even know why we’re here. Especially you,” he whines, passing a hand though his hair. “Not that I mind your presence, but…”

“But why did Cynthia call in her favor here and now?” finishes Owen as he leans back on the table, facing Curt. “I don’t know, love. I mean, of course I love every excuse to see you, but… I can’t be at Cynthia’s beck and call.”

 

Curt snorts.

 

“Welcome to my life.”

 

Owen smiles back.

 

“You know what I mean. I have my own boss – my own life.”

 

Curt raises his eyebrows.

 

“You mean your neighbor’s cat?”

 

What could Owen have in his life that is neither work nor Curt? _So many things_ , answers Curt inner voice. _So many other people_.

 

“I mean, like, my family. I don’t know, I’m not just a spy! I’m a man! I’m a human being! We should be allowed to be more than our jobs, for fuck’s sake!”

 

He throws his hands in the air and starts pacing, but Curt stops him by extending his leg in front of him.

 

“Owen.”

“What?!” snaps Owen.

 

Curt contracts his jaw. He’s heard Owen use that tone before, but never with him. He pulls back his leg, and sees Owen’s pain on his face as he does so.

 

“Sorry, love,” says Owen in a much softer tone, kneeling in front of him. “I didn’t want to– I’m not mad at you.”

 

Curt purposefully avoids his eyes by turning his head. But when Owen puts his hand on his knee, he almost caves in.

 

“I’m sorry,” repeats Owen. “It’s just… I’ve got a lot of things going on at the moment, and I’d rather deal with them than be here. My mind is so full that I can’t even enjoy being with you,” he adds in a playful tone.

“What kind of things?” asks Curt dryly, still not looking at him.

 

Owen sighs, and Curt fears for the worst.

 

“Just… things. Work-related things. I cant tell you the details, but—”

“Then don’t say anything.”

“Love, I—”

“Go back if you want to. I’ll deal with it on my own and tell Cynthia you were here.”

 

To say Curt was looking forward to this mission with Owen. Even when he knew it would be cold, and dark, and everything he hates, he still felt giddy at the idea of going, _because Owen would be there_. But if Owen would rather be somewhere else than with him… better stop everything right now, right?

 

“I can deal with it by myself,” he adds. “It’s not like it is a difficult mission.”

 

Owen’s fingers squeeze his knee and it’s becoming harder not to look at him.

 

“I want to be with you, Curt,” says Owen, almost pleading. “I want to be with you every damn second I’m awake, and even those I’m not. I swear. But I want to be my best self when I’m with you. Not… not this. I don’t want to be angry, or to have my mind full of things that are not you.”

 

Under normal circumstances, Curt has never been able to resist Owen very long. So how can he do so now?

He looks at him.

Owen’s eyes are both hurt and hopeful. Curt feels some sort of power for thinking he’s the one who can make them lean one way or another, then guilt for even thinking like that. Of course he doesn’t want to hurt Owen, in any way. He never will.

 

Sure, he has wanted to, when they first met, a couple of times, but that feels like lifetimes ago. Now, he would do anything to protect him.

 

So Curt leans forward and, slowly, pushes a strand of Owen’s too long hair behind his ear. _I don’t like seeing you stressed_ , he wants to say. _I don’t like seeing you in pain_. _I don’t like seeing you angry. It makes me stressed, and in pain, and angry too_.

But he says:

 

“What can I do to help you take your mind off those things?”

 

Owen smiles his sad smile, the one he shows only Curt – as far as Curt knows –, and leans into the touch of Curt’s hand.

 

“I’m just happy you’re here,” he whispers.

 

Curt moves toward him and, slowly, kisses him. He sees Owen close his eyes, and does the same.

What he can’t say in words, he conveys in his lips and tongue.

 

 

***

 

 

Curt wraps the blanket tighter around them, but it doesn’t push the cold much further. This warehouse doesn’t only have the abandoned look, but also the equipment. Apart from the spare chairs and tables, they found in a corner a mattress that has definitely seen better days and a couple of blanket. When they were shedding their clothes around, none of that mattered to them, but now that they’ve cooled down – probably thanks to some broken window somewhere in this empty building –, there’s no mistaking that they’re in Norway and it’s the middle of the night – like, 5pm.

Owen nestles against Curt and, though his body heat is far from enough to warm Curt, he relishes in it. He burrows his nose in Owen’s neck and inhales as deep as he can. In front of him, Owen shifts again, and sighs.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” murmurs Curt.

“About what?”

“Whatever’s bothering you.”

 

Owen sighs again.

 

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” retreats Curt.

“It’s not that,” eventually comes the answer. “It’s…” Another shift. “I thinks Bill doesn’t trust me anymore.”

 

Silence follows this declaration as Curt doesn’t know how to answer. He has lived in Cynthia’s distrust since the very first days of his career and has, for a very long time – basically until Owen convinced him otherwise – been sure that he deserved it. Disappointing his superior is nothing new to him, even today, but Owen… Owen never seems to have had that kind of issue. Owen is the prodigal son, loved and admired by all – even Cynthia –, always charming, always winning hearts and battles, always getting approval, even for his most obscure actions. What would it take for Bill not to trust Owen anymore?

 

“Why?” finally asks Curt.

 

He feels Owen shrugging.

 

“If I knew.”

 

Curt has never been really good at human understanding but, with Owen, it’s different. He knows Owen. He’s studied, consciously or not, his voice, his actions, his gestures, his intonations, his moves that even Owen himself doesn’t seem to notice. He can tell Owen’s moods just by looking at him, or listening to him.

And, if he pays enough attention, he can tell if Owen lies.

 

“You do,” affirms Curt without thinking, caught in his surprise and his concern.

 

He immediately regrets it. He doesn’t want to push Owen to talk about things if he doesn’t want to. But, if Owen hides that – whatever _that_ is – from him, who knows what else he doesn’t tell Curt ?

Owen seems as much surprised by his answer than Curt, because it takes him a few seconds to say:

 

“What makes you say that?”

“I know you,” simply answers Curt.

 

Owen laughs, more out of incredulity than out of fun. He turns to face Curt and puts a hand on his cheek.

 

“You surprise me more every day, love,” he whispers. “Yes, I know,” he finally admits. “But I can’t tell you. State secret, and all that shit, you know?”

 

Curt nods. He feels Owen relax against him, but asks nonetheless:

 

“Can’t you reverse it? If you know why, I mean, can’t you go back into his good graces?”

 

Owen huffs and shakes his head.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

Curt doesn’t know what more to say. So, after a few minutes, he just adds:

 

“You know, Cynthia would love to have you in her team.”

Owen laughs. “I’ll let her know, if I ever get to considering treason.”

 

They fall into silence. Curt shivers, and Owen presses him more into his arms. None of them consider leaving the dirty mattress and the meager blankets for the comfort of their clothes.

 

“Do you want to leave?” eventually asks Curt. “To take care of… whatever?”

 

Owen sighs.

 

“No. How can I want to leave, now that…”

“Now that what?” teases Curt.

“Are you seriously asking?”

 

Curt answers with a shrug and a cheeky grin. Owen laughs and slightly punches his shoulder.

When the laughter softens, Owen says:

 

“No, I figure, while I’m here, I’d rather use this as a break. That, and you’re doing everything to make me stay.”

“I try.”

 

They laugh again, and Curt shivers.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” says Owen. “We’re gonna freeze to death.”

 

He pushes back the blankets and they quickly retrieve their clothes and put them back on. Curt keeps thinking about their earlier conversation as he puts his legs in his trousers and buttons his shirt. Sure, ever since he became a spy, his life has always been centered around his job, going one side of the world or another as he was told to. He couldn’t plan holidays, didn’t have timetables, couldn’t talk about his job. He never questioned it, until he met Owen.

 

He didn’t feel the need to. Focusing on his job was what kept him alive; kept him moving. He was being useful to the world, bringing peace one mission at a time, and that was enough. He had no wish to plan any kind of future, no one he wanted to go on holiday with – seeing his mum a couple of days a year was enough to remember he loved her more when she was far away –, and he had never felt really close to any of his girlfriends or friends.

He was a spy, above all else. His job was all he had.

 

But now he has Owen. And, with him, he has started to long for something more.

He has started to _be_ more than his job.

 

“What if we went dark?”

 

Owen stills while pulling his jumper over his head, then finishes and, as soon as his head emerges, asks:

 

“What?”

“Just for this mission. We’ll tell Cynthia, or whoever the fuck is in charge, that we had to if we didn’t want to be compromised, and in the mean time we take like, what, a couple of hours to find that rogue agent? And a couple of days off. With no coms, and no mission, and no nothing and no one to come yell at us or I don’t know.”

 

For a few seconds, Owen just stares at him, and Curt is afraid he’s ruined everything. Owen had finally lost all of his anger and gone back to his usual self, and now who knows what he might get back into.

But no, a smile creeps its way on Owen’s lips and he says:

 

“Who are you and what have you done with Curt Mega?”

 

Curt shakes his head with a laugh as Owen walks toward him.

 

“It’s just… It could be nice, you know?”

 

Owen puts his hand on the back of Curt’s neck and looks him in the eyes.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Curt nods firmly. This idea wasn’t even in his head a few minutes ago, but now he feels like he’s never been surer of anything. He wants that. He _needs_ that. Just a couple of days, with Owen, just the two of them. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the middle of a twenty-four hour long night of snowstorm, as long as it’s with Owen.

He feels like he has never wanted anything more in his whole life.

He catches Owen’s wrist and, hand on his watch, looks at him and asks, with all the seriousness he can muster:

 

“Do you want to do it?”

“Hell yeah,” sighs Owen.

 

Curt presses the buttons.

 

 

***

 

 

“Why did we leave that cabin, for real?”

“Because that kind of thing never lasts,” grumbles Curt, checking his gun behind the wall hiding them.

 

That has been one constant thing in his life: when something good happened, it was never bound to last. Owen has been the one exception to that rule, but even with him, he only ever has spare moments; stolen ones. A few hours, days when they’re lucky, and then it’s back to business. So Curt has learnt to make the best of those good moments, and not dwell on them when they’re gone because, in his life, every good thing has been stolen – from someone else’s time, hands, opinion – and shouldn’t even have been his in the first place.

 

And Owen himself is no exception to that one rule. His status as MI6 agent should have made him a competitor at best; the simple fact that they’re both men is supposed to discourage any kind of relationship that goes beyond some sort of fraternity; they are completely opposite type of people. Everything, from pure logic to good morale, with a fair share of natural feelings and the ever looming shadow of diplomatic war on their shoulder, should have prevented anything from ever happening between them; and yet here they are, not only fighting side by side, not only friends, but sharing their doubts, their thoughts, everything of their most intimate and personal life – sharing their love.

 

Owen is a miracle, and every second with him is a blessing, but Curt has never been one to believe in miracles or to take anything for granted.

So, of course, they had to leave their cabin in the middle of nowhere, where only leafless trees and snow and wild beasts could see them, to come back to the human world and do what they’re supposed to do: their job.

 

Of course, while they were up there, they daydreamed about staying dark forever, throwing away their watches at the bottom of a frozen lake and staying hidden for the rest of their lives, growing old in quiet forgotten places where no one would even think of looking for them; eventually, everyone who knew of them would die or forget about them, and they would be nothing but a distant memory to the world, living a life of peace where no one would shoot them or yell at them, and the most dangerous situation they could find themselves in was if they ever met a grizzly bear.

But first, all of that is just that: daydreaming, and second, they both love the thrill of a good mission way too much to completely give up on that. Without the adrenaline of the fight, they would probably get bored of everything and end up fighting each other without any better opponent. Besides, none of them need that much time to think about life or themselves and reflect on their actions.

No, having that sweet dream was fun, and imagining themselves in a somewhat domestic setting brought a softer side to their relationship, but they had to go back to the real world. Not only for the sake of them and their relationship, but also because, despite his speech and all of the bravado Curt puts on, he’s still concerned about Cynthia’s reaction to their blackout, and he also care abut his job: there’s a rogue agent to stop, that’s what they were sent here to do, and they’re going to do just that.

 

None of them actually protested when they decided to climb down from heaven to get into the real world. The parenthesis was a welcome one, but deep down, they’re both spies who care about a job well done.

 

Finding the agent was easy: she didn’t even bother to change her address and, so far, she has been sticking to her schedule – as given to them by Cynthia. They’ve been tagging her for the past twenty-four hours and, to be honest, it has been quite boring. They’ve been joking about how they should have stayed at the cabin ever since, but right now, it seems like things are about to happen.

The agent – Noranda – is currently meeting with a gun dealer, in the park overlooking the river, behind the cathedral. Him and Owen are hiding behind a small wall, trying to overhear their exchange, but mostly reading on their lips because the wind carries to the other side. The meeting was planned, but they suspect she’s going to try and switch side, or to use that connection for her own benefit.

They can’t catch much of the meeting but, when it ends – same time than the day, around noon or something probably –, she and the arms dealer shake hands and each one goes their way.

 

“I’ll take him”, mutters Owen, and Curt nods in response as they split up.

 

 

***

 

 

“It makes me wonder if she’s even shady at all,” comments Owen when they meet back later and share what they’ve learned.

 

If Owen’s part has been a bit eventful – he may have uncovered the arms hideout of the guns dealer –, on Curt’s side, nothing has happened: she went grocery shopping and got home to her husband and kids, where she had dinner and did some housekeeping. Hiding outside with binoculars, Curt did some lip reading to the best of his capacity – and of the position of windows –, but nothing came out of it except trivial content like the kids’ day at school or the husband work.

Now Owen has joined him on his watch, but the house is deep asleep. They’re sitting against each other, buried deep in warm coats and scarves in the garden house, watching nothing happen a sleeping neighborhood.

 

“We’ll watch her for a couple more days and then tell Cynthia what we saw. If she’s not rogue, she’s not.”

 

Owen stays silent a few minutes as he keeps looking through the binoculars, and finally says:

 

“It’s not just a surveillance mission.”

“What do you mean? If she’s rogue, it’s not, but if she ain’t, it—”

“Cynthia specifically asked for me here and called in that one favor I owed her. She wouldn’t do that for a simple rogue agent.”

“I know. We’ve been through that.”

“So there must be more to her. What if Cynthia just wants her out? For some reason she wouldn’t want to tell us, because we’re just peasants to her?”

“I’m a peasant on my own,” mumbles Curt. “I don’t need you to take someone out.”

“No, but…”

 

When Owen doesn’t finish his sentence, Curt frowns and asks:

 

“But what?”

 

Owen sighs.

 

“But she may have thought that you could hesitate to take her out if you had doubts, so she asked for me because she thought I wouldn’t.”

 

Curt starts to feel irritated.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Another sigh.

 

“You have a heart, Curt. And don’t get me wrong, I love and admire that in you. But, sometimes, it keeps you from making radical decisions that need to be made. Like, in this case, killing someone that needs to be killed.”

“Are you saying you _don’t_ have a heart?”

“Not in my job, no.”

 

Curt snorts.

 

“And what did _that_ mean?” asks Owen.

“A, I know you, and you’re not the heartless killer yourself or Cynthia want you to be. And B, you absolutely _hate_ when your enemy taunts you and gets the best of you, and you can’t rest until you’ve got them. You react a lot more with your emotions than you seem to think.”

“I can kill a person in cold blood,” says Owen, becoming grumpy too.

“And so can I! And don’t try to deny it, because that’s precisely what happened in Prague three weeks ago.”

“Fine, you can! And we’re back to square one, I’m useless here and we don’t have the funckinguest idea of why Cynthia asked for me.”

 

The tension in the air push them apart from each other, and the wind slips between their bodies. Curt looks n the opposite direction from Owen. With a clumsy glove, he searches inside his coat and takes out his flask. He hears a disapproving snort from Owen as he opens it, but takes a couple of sip nevertheless. He almost closes it, stops himself and hands it toward Owen, without looking at him.

 

“Want some?”

 

For a few seconds, there’s no answer, then Owen catches it and sighs:

 

“Fuck, it’s too damn cold anyway.”

 

Curt hears him swallowing and the tension he felt inside his stomach after their exchange starts to vanish. He has never been able to stay mad at Owen for very long and, if he suspects the reverse to be true as well, he isn’t so sure and wouldn’t want to tempt the devil by trying to find out.

 

“What if we’re looking at this the wrong way?” he asks as Owen gives him back the flask.

“What are you talking about?”

 

Owen’s voice is still a bit upset, but not resentful anymore.

 

“Why Cynthia asked for you. I’m saying, maybe she did that, not because she wanted you _here_ , but because she didn’t want you _somewhere else_.”

 

Owen stays silent and gives Curt the binoculars.

 

“What were you doing before she called you?” asks Curt as he puts them in front of his eyes.

 

Another silence – but Curt can tell Owen is no longer mad at him; he’s only thinking about what he’s just said.

 

“I can’t tell you,” he finally says in a quiet voice.

“But can it be possible?”

“It may.”

 

Again, their elbows and shoulders find comfort in touching each other.

 

“Could Bill have asked Cynthia to take you off whatever you were doing?”

“He didn’t know I owed her a favor.”

“She could have told him.”

“She could.”

“Or she could have learned, one way or another, about whatever you were doing, and ask him to send you here.”

“Maybe. But why would he have agreed?”

“You said he had trust issues with you these days, right?”

 

Owen sighs.

 

“Yeah.”

“Or maybe he owed her a favor too, so that was it.”

 

Owen’s laugh and his voice is muffled when he answers.

 

“There’s too damn much favors in this equation.”

 

Curt drops the binoculars and turns toward him. Owen’s arms are around his knees, and his head in the middle. Curt passes an arm around Owen’s shoulders and puts his chin on Owen’s arms. He feels Owen leaning against him.

 

“I know you probably want to fight Cynthia right now,” he finally says, “but don’t. You can’t win at that. Not against her. Nobody can. But you’ll find a way out of this, okay? _We’ll_ find a way. Remember? We’re the best spies in the whole world.”

 

He feels Owen’s laugh more than he hears it.

 

“Tell that to Bill and Cynthia.”

“Oh, they probably know, they’re just too proud to say it to our face.”

 

This time, Owen’s laugh is real as he straightens his head. His eyes meet Curt’s, and they smile at each other, inches apart.

 

“What are we gonna do?” asks Owen softly.

 

Curt’s hand finds its place on Owen’s neck and he squeezes lightly.

 

“We’re gonna ace this mission, show them what we’re capable of, and we’re gonna find a solution to your problem. Okay?”

“Maybe we should turn our trackers back on?”

 

Curt pouts.

 

“Nah. Let them suffer.”

 

He muffles Owen’s laugh with his kiss.

 

 

***

 

 

“Four, days, Mega! Four _fucking_ days! What was I supposed to fucking _think_?”

 

Just as Curt thought, the very minute he turned his tracker back on, he got a very angry call from Cynthia. He briefly considered not picking up, but enduring her wrath when Owen would no longer be around was a terrible idea.

 

“We thought we had a better chance at—”

“At what? Fucking up the mission and endangering everything and everyone around it? Because congratulations, that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Hi Cynthia! How are you doing, darling?”

“Owen!” she answers in a much perkier voice. “Lovely to hear you’re still here. Curt need to—”

“I’m sorry you didn’t like _my_ idea of switching off our trackers,” he interrupts with a look at Curt, who rolls his eyes, “But I thought we’d be more discreet for our target if we didn’t carry our watches – she might have recognized them, you know?”

“No, no, my dear, I totally understand why you thought this necessary. But it caused us great worry over here, you understand? You can’t just do that without warning us first. I don’t know how it works at the MI6, but here, we like to know what our agents are up to.”

“I’m sorry we caused you distress, my dear, but we only did what we thought was best for the mission.” Owen winks at Curt over his wrist, who shakes his head.

“Let’s forget about it for now. I hope you bring me good news.”

“She’s not dirty,” blurts Curt.

“What?”

“Our target. She hasn’t gone rogue. We’ve been watching her closely for… four days, and she’s done nothing out of her schedule or the ordinary.”

“Are you absolutely sure? Because we can’t—”

“We’ve checked thoroughly, Cynthia,” interrupts Owen again. “I don’t know how you do it in America, but in my country, when we say we’re sure, we usually are.”

“Alright, quit being cheeky, Owen, I trust you. Right, Curt, I want the report on my desk as soon as you come back, which I expect will be in the next twelve hours, and Owen, it was lovely having you on the field with us again. Next time you’re stateside, please come say hi.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear.”

“Okay, we gotta wrap this up, see you tomorrow.”

 

Curt turns off the communication and sighs of exasperation as he leans over the table in front of him. Next to him, Owen passes a hand on his back.

 

“At least it was quick,” he comments.

“Yeah,” laughs bitterly Curt. “Thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t trust you.”

“And I’m sorry Bill doesn’t trust you,” answers Curt, straightening himself to look at Owen. “You’re gonna be okay?” he asks with a hand on Owen’s cheek.

 

Owen nods.

 

“Don’t worry about me, love. I always find a solution.”

“I know you do.”

 

Owen pulls him into a hug.

 

“Be careful, okay?” whispers Curt.

 

There’s a small silence before Owen answers:

 

“You too, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me one week to write this whole chapter and I can't believe it myself. I can't promise I'll repeat this feat next week.
> 
> Also Curt isn't made for Norway in winter.
> 
> I was talking about this last week, so of course it wouldn't leave my mind and I made a playlist for this fic. [You can find it here](https://open.spotify.com/user/loria_no/playlist/0pfmlFnupqplzH8jAcVfCz?si=FvxW__EcQaKQQXQE4hsDuw). (and OF COURSE it's filled with songs from Blunderbuss and Eyes Wide, Tongue Tied because have you listened to those records???? They're so #CurtAndOwen) (You should listen to these records in full btw because apart from that they're also great records.) I might add a few songs in the next few days, if others come to my mind, but you have a good start here.


	16. Berlin – April 1957

“Wait, not yet.”

 

Owen stops Curt with a hand on his arm and Curt frowns, ready to get out of cover.

 

“Wait for what?”

“It’s not safe yet.”

 

Curt risks an eye over the corner of the wall.

 

“There’s only one guard left. If we wait more, the other will come back.”

“And if we wait even more, both will leave.”

 

Curt sighs.

 

“You’re no more fun since you decided you needed to come back into Bill’s good grace and follow every rule.”

“Remember when you used to follow every rule by the book when we first met?”

“Remember when you used to constantly tease me about that?”

 

Owen smiles.

 

“Yeah. That was fun.”

“And now, careful, you’re becoming like the old me.”

“Keep dreaming. Come on, let’s go, they’re gone!”

 

Curt rolls his eyes as he follows Owen inside the gates of the building. Inside, they meet one guard, but Owen takes him out without a sound, using the element of surprise. As he turns toward Curt with a smile, as if to prove his point, Curt points his gun at him and shoot. Another guard falls with a gargling sound as Owen looks behind him.

 

“Nice shot, love.”

“Was it _by-the-book_ enough to your liking?”

 

Owen shrugs.

 

“It’ll have to do.”

 

They start moving forward and start hearing some yells coming toward them.

 

“Bad thing is,” whispers Owen, “it warned them of our presence.”

“Oh, would you rather I’d have let you die?”

“No, but I’m trying to prove to you the benefits of a life devoid of sins.”

“Been there, done that. It didn’t work for me.”

 

Owen laughs as he stops Curt with his arm before turning around a corner. They hear footsteps coming closer, then going away.

 

“And now my fun lies in trying to convert you to my principles,” whispers Owen in his ear before turning he corner.

 

Curt follows in his wake with a snort.

 

“Pretending to be a saint won’t make you one,” he retorts.

“Hey, I can still try.”

 

He finds himself facing two guards and immediately takes them down, one shot in the head for each. Curt takes the third one as Owen comments:

 

“Well, there goes our cover.”

“You’re deluding yourself. It was long gone. Come on, that way,” says Curt as he takes the lead.

“This isn’t the way to—”

“The guns’ room? Nah. It’s the way to the main offices.”

“What are you planning to do in there? We’re just supposed to make sure they won’t be able to use their guns.”

“And now they know we’re here, so we’d rather blow this whole place up and make sure no one will be there to use those guns anyway. So—” he shoots another guard as he comes up to them “— we’d rather go to the center of all this, have access to the controls of the place and make it explode from there.”

“Isn’t it a bit overdramatic?”

 

Curt briefly stops to look at him with a pout.

 

“Come on, you _love_ overdramatic.”

“Not anymore. New, by-the-book me can’t condone it.”

“But I can promise you that he will sure as hell enjoy it,” answers Curt with a devilish smile.

“Well, since you’ve got that look in your eyes that says I can’t stop you.”

“Better roll with the flow, old man.”

 

Curt leads him along corridors, certain that, despite his comments, Owen will follow him. He may have taken new resolutions, and try to be a new man – more focused, more serious, more respectful, more _whatever_ –, but Owen is still Owen, and he still has a thing for grand gestures, big explosions and theatricals.

They eventually stop to try hiding their steps and just start running, taking down opponent as they show up. When they finally reach the rooms that control all of the place, almost at the center of the compound, they’re nearly out of ammo – they only have enough left to shoot the door open and take down the guys in these rooms.

 

“Quick, help me move that table over here,” calls Curt.

 

They grunt a bit as they slide the metal table in front of the door they can’t lock anymore, and block it seconds only before their followers reach it.

 

“Okay, what do we do now?” heaves Curt, out of breath.

 

The windowless room is full of command panels, with a few screens in black and white. It definitely is the place that controls and survey this whole hidden army compound at the border of the city, where weapons are at least stocked, and supposedly developed, by the Russian occupants.

Owen turns around the room, studying the panels and the screens.

 

“If you give me a bit of time, I might be able to figure out how all of that work.”

“We don’t have time!” says Curt as the door takes hits after hits and the table starts to give way.

 

He picks up some guns left in a corner, throws one at Owen across the room, and gives a quick look around too.

 

“Look, there’s a big red button over here. How about we press it and see what happens? It seems pretty important anyway.”

Joining the gesture to the words, he pushes it just as Owen says: “Don’t!”

He looks at him with a mischievous smile. “Too late.”

 

Just then, an alarm starts blaring all over the place, and the lights turn red. Some words in Russian accompany the rest.

 

“They’re saying we need to evacuate, right?” yells Owen to be heard over all of this.

“Your Russian _has_ gotten better.”

“Are they saying we only have nine minutes?”

“Yes.”

“And did you consider how we were gonna get out of there, with the only door heavily guarded?”

Curt checks the ammo in his automatic rifle, nods in approval and answers, locking eyes with Owen: “Well, aren’t we the kings of improvisation?”

 

Owen sighs and shakes his head, but a smile creeps on his lips as he arms his own rifle while they get closer to the door.

 

“Oh, Curt Mega, you will be the death of me.”

“Not tonight. We’re too good for that, nah?”

 

Owen smiles back just as the door loudly opens.

 

 

***

 

 

They erupt from the gate in a stolen armored car, the sirens blaring loudly behind them as bullets ricochets on the metal of the car. Owen heaves on the pedal with all his weight, more preoccupied with putting as much distance as possible between them and the facility than by avoiding obstacles, as Curt shoots their pursuants through the window with his rifle. He lets the gun fall on the ground when he’s out of ammo, and give a look at his watch.

 

“Six minutes.”

“What?” asks Owen, focused on his environment.

“We made it out in six minutes. That’s a record, right?”

 

Owen’s eyes don’t leave the road, but his lips turn into a smile.

 

“I think it is, yes.”

“I told you we were too good to die.”

 

Owen’s right hand briefly leaves the wheel to caress Curt’s cheek.

 

“Yes you did, love. We’re the best.”

 

Behind them, the compound turns into flames and they see the flames and feel the deflagration, even if they’ve put quite a distance between them.

 

“Well, I guess we can say this mission… was a blast,” comment Curt as he looks through the back window.

 

Owen snorts.

 

“I’m not sure if Bill and Cynthia are gonna like that as much as we do, though.”

“I don’t give a fuck what Cynthia says, whatever I do, she’s not gonna like it anyway. And if Bill gets mad at you _again_ , tell him it was my doing.”

“In all fairness, it was.”

“Well, who leaves an explosion button in the middle of a control panel?”

“I must admit I didn’t believe it myself,” says Owen as he slows down, and eventually parks the car in an alley. “Come on, let’s walk. We’re far enough.”

 

Curt is still profusely smiling when he gets out of the car. After a quick look around, he pulls Owen for a short kiss by the hem of his shirt.

 

“That was a good mission,” Owen whispers against his lips.

“And a fun one,” adds Curt.

“And a fun one,” admits Owen.

 

They separate, smiles still floating on their lips, and Owen takes a look around.

They’re in the middle of a suburbs that has all of the abandoned look but is probably very much lived in. The armored car is gonna make some happy people, when it’s going to be found.

 

“Hey. I know where we are,” whispers Owen.

“Where?”

“Give me your hand.”

 

Curt hands the right one, but Owen catches his left wrist and presses a few buttons on his watch, before doing the same on his own.

 

“Did you just deactivate our trackers?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to by-the-book you?”

“He can’t go where we’re going. Follow me.”

 

Still exhilarated from the explosion, Curt checks his gun even though he knows it’s empty, and catch up to Owen to walk next to him.

As the thrill of the mission begins to run down, Curt shivers in the chill of this spring night and checks around him, just to make sure no one followed them. True, most of their opponents were probably killed in the explosion, but some have escaped and may be after them.

 

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“We’re almost there.”

 

A few streets later, after one or two wrong turns, Owen stops in front of a decrepit bar.

 

“You recognize it?”

 

Something looks oddly familiar to Curt as he frowns, trying to piece out what it is.

 

“Come on, let’s get inside,” invites Owen, already crossing the street.

 

The place is almost empty at this hour of the night, very dark, and the little conversation there was before they came in stops the second they enter the room. It doesn’t stop Owen from going straight to the bar and ordering two whisky in German, just as everything resurfaces on Curt’s brain. Owen catches the glasses and, with a nod to Curt that shows they’re both on the same page, leads him upstairs, then out on the terrace.

This time, there’s no rain, and the temperature is slightly warmer, but everything else is so familiar.

 

“The place we met,” comments Curt as Owen gives him one of the glasses.

“The place where it all begun.” Owen raises his glass. “Cheers, love.”

“Cheers.”

“To everything that has happened since.”

“And everything that will happen.”

 

They both take a sip of their drink, their eyes never leaving the other’s, and Curt comment:

 

“I thought you said _not on the job_.”

“Tonight’s an exception. Consider this like, I don’t know, our anniversary.”

 

Curt raises his eyebrows.

 

“We met in the fall.”

“Well, then, it can be a toast to your slightly improved German.”

“And to your even less improved Russian.”

“Hey!”

 

Curt takes another sip with a teasing smile and leans against the wall. Owen imitates him and, after a few seconds of silence, says:

 

“Can I admit something to you?”

 

Curt turns toward him, curious. Since that very first night, so much has changed, but his profile is still the same. Hair might be a bit longer, skin a bit older, eyes a bit wiser, body a bit skinnier, but he can almost superimpose the Owen from tonight with his vision from six years ago.

 

“What?”

“That was my first time in Berlin too, that night.”

Curt laughs. “Are you serious?!”

“Sadly, yes.”

“And you lectured me about how I was a kid who knew nothing! You didn’t know anymore than I did!”

“Hey, I tried to get the upper hand! I was young and trying to prove myself!”

Curt laughs again as he shakes his head and watches Owen’s smile. “What else have you hidden from me?”

 

Owen stares at him intently, before declaring, in all seriousness:

 

“I liked you from the start.”

 

Curt stays with an open mouth for a few seconds, reconsidering everything that has happened between him and Owen during all these years.

 

“Why?” he finally says.

“I don’t know. You had a form of naivety, of pureness of heart, that kinda made me want to make fun of you and protect you at the same time.”

“I didn’t need your protection.”

“Yeah, I learned that quickly enough,” laughs Owen. “And I learned that you were not as naïve or blue as your appeared. But that pure heart of yours, that kindness you have, is something that has never ceased to amaze me, even today, and that drew me to you, time after time. I… you were, and you still are, one of the best spies I’ve ever met, and not just because of your skills, but because you… you keep on insisting in trying to do the good thing.” He risks a quick look at Curt before going on. “Spies are… _we_ are… heartless bastards. Manipulative, deceptive, selfish, working for the best of our personal interests, you name it. Even those who start with hope and the wish to save the world, like I did, like we probably all did… we lose that sight in all the gruesomeness of the work. But not you. You didn’t. No matter what happened, you heart has always been in the right place. Hell,” he huffs, “you took a bullet for me even though you hated me and you knew very well what would happen if you did. I can count on one hand the people who took a bullet for me. You know what, I can even count them on one finger.”

 

He pushes himself away from the wall and comes standing in front of Curt, catching his eyes. Curt stares back, at loss for words, one hand around his glass and the other tucked behind his back to stop it from… trembling, moving, catching Owen and never letting him go – whatever.

 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Curt,” adds Owen. “Without you, I—” his voice break. “I’d been even more of a heartless bastard,” he chuckles, but more from emotion than from hilarity. “You’ve pushed me to be a better spy, and a better person. You still do.”

 

Owen’s fingers brush the hem of Curt’s jacket, and Curt’s hand unfists as he comes and hold them in his.

 

“I tried really hard to hate you,” he whispers, looking at their intertwined fingers. “I really did. You were so carefree, and messy, and… everything seemed to come so easy to you. I wanted to hate you, but I… I wished I had your nonchalance. And your… nature, or whatever. You seemed to be made for the job, and to fit in effortlessly, when I…” He raises his head and meets Owen’s eyes. “I had to work so hard, and it never was right. You… whatever you did, you seemed to get it right. I hated you for that, and I… that’s what made me love you, too.” He takes a big inspiration and sighs, briefly averting his eyes. “Truth is… I don’t think I would have taken a bullet for just anyone.”

 

Owen snorts, but there is nothing mocking in this sound.

 

“Can I admit something to you too?” mumbles Curt, playing with his fingers.

“Sure.”

 

Another big inspiration, and Curt looks at him again.

 

“You’re the best thing that happened to me too. But I always thought you deserved better.” A silence. Then, in a softer tone: “I still do, sometimes.”

“Curt…” pleads Owen.

 

Softly, he places his hand on Curt’s cheek and forces him to look at him.

 

“I always thought you deserved better too, love,” he whispers. “You deserve the world.”

“You too,” whispers back Curt. The he adds with a smile, to lessen the emotional tension of the moment. “Sadly, we’ve only got each other.”

 

Owen smiles back.

 

“I think it will do just fine.”

He then leans forward and, just before kissing him, whispers: “I love you, Curt.”

“I love you too,” answers Curt in a breath.

 

The last word gets lost in the tangle of their lips, the taste of whisky and the softness of the other’s hair beneath their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me when I started writing this: "So this is gonna be like 10k words top and in a couple of week I'll be done with it"  
> Me finishing the last sentence one year and 79k words later : "oh okay"
> 
> Yeah, I finished writing this story this week, right in my original schedule (and believe me I was the first one surprised), and now, to quote a great spy, it's time to MOVE ON and write other stuff, which delights me greatly, no matter how much I love Curt and Owen (still gonna miss them, though).
> 
> Soooooo... this is the last real chapter. There's a very small epilogue missing (just in case everyone's heart wasn't broken enough, you know), and i'll post it sometime this week because I won't be here next weekend. I hope you enjoyed the ride so far, and I hope you'll enjoy the last (very) little bit of it!


	17. USSR – October 1957

This is not the first time Curt is awoken with a slap to find himself tied to a chair, but it never gets any more pleasant.

  
“He’s opening his eyes,” says a male voice in Russian in front of him.

  
He blinks a couple of time. He was too sloppy in his scouting of this Russian weapon facility, somebody knocked him from behind, and now he’s here, unable to move, with his tracker that he deactivated at least an hour ago because Barb was being too chatty, as usual.  
Getting out of here will probably be hell. Not impossible, he’s done worse before, but he might get a couple of wounds in the process.  
He hears some metallic sound behind him as the man who woke him disappears from his sight, and another voice says:

  
“Good, you’re awake. Now let’s begin.”

  
He refrains a smile as a recognizes the unsure accent.  
Actually, everything is going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end.
> 
> Now you can either go on with the play, in which case I wish you a happy broken heart, or choose to totally ignore it and pretend Curt and Owen live Happily Ever After.

**Author's Note:**

> A few words about this story:  
> 1) I have zero idea on how spies actually work  
> 2) basically I had zero idea of what was happening next in this story at any given time. I mean, I know where I wanted to take the characters, and I had a few /drama/ scenes in mind, but the action? Well, every single chapter started with me asking my friends “please give me a town/country”, and then I just figured out scene after scene what was actually happening  
> 3) there are a lot of warehouses because when the question is “there’s something, but what?” the answer, more often than not, is “ a warehouse”.  
> 4) basically I suck at planning stories because I’m only here for the /drama/ and the /character development/.  
> 5) so I wanted to apologize for all of those investigations that started within this story but never got a conclusion because I was too lazy for that and I hope you enjoyed the compensatory /drama/ that was here to hide the inconsistency of the plot.
> 
> Considering our two favorite spies, here are a few headcanons that either were at the origin of this fic/originated from writing this fic:  
> 1) Owen’s involvement with Chimera and transformation into the deadliest man alive didn’t just come out of the blue after his *death*  
> 2) Curt didn’t wait for Owen’s death to be in depression/an alcoholic  
> 3) Owen flirts his way into situations, and Curt fights his way in  
> 4) basically Curt is terrible at human interactions and can’t take a cue  
> 5) Owen needs Curt as much as Curt needs Owen; Owen keeps Curt alive and Curt keeps Owen human – and we’ve all seen what happens when they’re not here for each other anymore  
> 6) Owen *must* have loved Curt very deeply at some point at least, otherwise his feeling of betrayal and his hatred wouldn’t have been that big  
> 7) Curt’s depression after Owen’s *death* comes not so much from grief than from the idea that he *could* have done something to save him and didn’t; that, at some point in his life, he wouldn’t have hesitated to give his life for Owen but, at that one moment where he should have acted, he didn’t – he’s not so much eaten by grief than by guilt.
> 
> /please consider that these are only *my* headcanons, based on my own feels and my interpretation of the play, and you don’t have to agree with them/
> 
> That being said, I wanted to thank my writing friends for helping me ( = forcing me to) write when I felt too lazy for that, the Tin Can Bros for writing this play, and all of you readers for reading it (also congrats for that because this was very long). I hope you’ve enjoyed it, that it made you feel things, and please send your love to our two fave spies and their creators.
> 
> Oh, and quick reminder : [there is playlist for this fic over here](https://open.spotify.com/user/loria_no/playlist/0pfmlFnupqplzH8jAcVfCz?si=FvxW__EcQaKQQXQE4hsDuw).


End file.
